


Be My Homeward Dove

by LadyJanus



Category: Star Trek: Voyager, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/F, Violence, mature themes, slavery/forced prostitution (nothing graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 68,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanus/pseuds/LadyJanus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kidnapped and trapped in an alien brothel, Kathryn meets a woman from the legendary city of Atlantis, and only together will they find their way … home.</p>
<p>Originally written for the 2011 Epic Proportions Event at Ralst's Passion & Perfection Archive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: For ST:V and SG:A – to the end of their respective series (although focusing on the first three years of Atlantis). Everything beyond is definitely takes a dive into the wide ocean that is Alt-U.
> 
> Warnings: Descriptions of slavery/forced prostitution (nothing graphic); violence; mature themes.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination in this Star Trek: Voyager / Stargate: Atlantis crossover story. Star Trek: Voyager belongs to Gene Roddenberry, Rick Berman, Michael Piller, Jeri Taylor, Paramount Studios, UPN, Viacom and whoever else owns pieces of the Star Trek franchise. Stargate: Atlantis belongs to MGM, SciFi various individuals and companies and whoever owns them.

**Be My Homeward Dove**

 

Part 1

 

In this place, she has no name. Not any more. All her captors have left her with is the shame of what she has become—what she has been _forced_ to become.

 

_At what point does even simple existence become so painful, so abhorrent that it overcomes the sin of suicide?_

 

She’s asked herself this more than once, and each time finding no answer, slipped deeper into the filth—and in doing so, kept on existing.

 

She has never been a particularly religious woman. Yet, she spends her hours contemplating sin. Never grace, for there is no grace here. No grace of God … no grace of Man. No God … no men … period.

 

The race of Man ... the species known as Human ... does not exist here.

 

Of course, other species have _males_ and _females_ , all depending on biology forged on a multitude of worlds where she’s sure Human feet have never walked, and she has been variously acquainted with multi-sex species, hermaphroditic species, parthnogenic species, and even one member of an agamogenic species— _it_ just wanted to experience the forbidden depravity inherent in conjugation with a sexual species—but there are no _men_ , and she is the only _woman_ here.

 

That is, if she’s really _here_ at all.

 

_Aye, there’s the rub. No way to tell between illusion and reality._

 

And she feels thoroughly sickened again because she wants this to be reality ... because for _this_ to be an illusion would make it even worse.

 

In a distance, she hears agonised screaming that sounds real enough—a hoarse voice, most likely female. There are other females in this place, but she is the only _woman_.

 

When the client finishes his business with her body, he collapses on her back, crushing her into the bed. His foul breath is hot on the back of her neck and she feels a measure of relief that his species prefers to take their females from behind. As he climbs off her, she rolls onto her side, draws her knees up to her chest and waits for him to leave.

 

At least he has translation technology; it’s rather rudimentary and garbles _Dom’ruun_ , the language of the species that owns her body, but she thinks his species is called _Saibo_ and the dull pain in her lower abdomen tells her he’s definitely male.

 

She hears him dress and listens as he pays his overtime balance to Kaan’och, the son of her owner Kan’oh. There is a difference in their names; it took her four days and twenty-five lashes to learn it … she who is fluent and literate in five languages … she who is knowledgeable in a over dozen others … she who has always prided herself on her skills as a linguist and diplomat.  But none of the languages of Man are spoken here and diplomacy is moot for a nation of one.

 

It’s taken her the six or seven months she’s been here to learn _Dom’ruun_. It’s hard to keep track of time; there is no night or day in space, and this station is always open for business.

 

When the door slides shut again, she gets up slowly, shuffles through the opposite door leading to the communal bathroom, wincing with each step. She climbs into a cleaner stall. It begins automatically. There are no water showers here to wash away her tears, therefore she doesn’t cry anymore … she simply stands with her legs apart and waits for the strange energy waves to clean away all genetic evidence the client has left on her body—inside and out. It automatically senses when she’s clean and shuts itself off. She leaves the stall and slowly makes her way over to the shelving alcove beside the door to her room.

 

When she’d first started to use it, she would automatically look for a towel to dry off with … even though it wasn’t a shower … even though she wasn’t wet …

 

She takes underwear and the first dress from the top of the pile and pulls them on. There isn’t much to it. The dress is strapless and made of some kind of fabric that moulds itself to her body, yet feels like silk. It barely reaches to mid-thigh, and there’s a blue sash that ties around her waist—the same colour as the trim at the top of the bust-line.

 

Imssan comes in with a pile of clothing and proceeds to distribute them among the alcoves. He’s very old—has been a slave here for twelve greater _senas_ , he’s told her. She’s fairly certain that _senas_ means cycle or year and there are twelve _senas_ in a greater _senas_. He has six digits on each hand, is somewhat reptilian, and his species is called _Rrathenin_.

 

“Ah, Dar,” he says in a sibilant whisper to her, smiling—at least she thinks it’s a smile.

 

_Dar_ is not her name, but it’s as good a name as any to answer to in this place. He pulls a small phial from one of his innumerable pockets and hands it to her. She takes it gratefully and tosses back the vile-tasting liquid; a restorative, he’s told her. She suspects some form of narcotic as a gentle warmth spreads from the centre of her belly to the rest of her body. She feels almost _Human_ again and wonders if she’s becoming addicted.

 

She has never yelled at Imssan or hit him; he takes it for kindness. He takes it for friendship.

 

“Kan’oh has acquired another one,” he says softly. She frowns at him in confusion. Why ever would the little alien think that she’d be interested in Kan’oh’s latest acquisition? “I think she is the same as you—” He grins, showing gums where sharp teeth should be; her eyes widen in shock. “I glimpsed a little of her biomedical scans while Chad’oh was doing her baseline readings and checking her for communicable diseases. They look like your baselines. Her head-fur is a little different colour from yours—like ore-rust—but she speaks the same incomprehensible nonsense you did when you first came here.”

 

For a moment her heart soars—another Human here—and then it crashes upon the jagged rocks of harsh reality. Another Human _woman_ here!

 

Imssan looks intently at her; she thinks she sees pity in his yellow eyes. “Kan’oh is disciplining her now in the display room,” he says. He’s no longer smiling. “I hear that she’s special order, and must be made ready for one of the _Shenloral’fen_ in six days.”

 

The _Shenloral’fen_ … the local royalty.

 

“Some of those not currently engaged with clients have gone to watch.”

 

She nods dumbly before finding her voice. “Imssan,” she says, willing herself to stop the trembling of her hands—she hadn’t noticed it before. “Thank you for telling me.”

 

He nods back to her as she hurries from the bathroom to the display room. She knows what _discipline_ means, and she hears the woman long before she enters.

 

Imssan is right; her hair is a shade of auburn that even damp, hints at a much redder shade when this woman was younger. Its shoulder-length strands are plastered to her face and head by the sweat pouring off her slim, pale body.

 

Dar shakes her head; hair colour doesn’t matter, but all of a sudden she remembers a time when it did matter to her far more than it should have. She’s never thought of herself as vain, but she has spent her share of time washing, conditioning and styling her hair. She’s spent her share of money on beauty salons and the occasional spa when she got older, on an ill-advised bleach blonde phase a few years ago and an even more ill-advised, punk phase when she was a teenager ... with her mother yelling at her that she looked like _“some vagabond street child with no home!”_

 

“I am your _Shando’fen_ —say it!” Kan’oh roars at the naked woman—hanging from the ceiling by a pair of electrostatic manacles—as he jabs at her with the agoniser, which looks like every cattle prod or long-handle taser Dar has ever seen.

 

_“No!”_ the woman croaks, and even in the throat-tearing screams as the agoniser’s energy plays over sweat-drenched skin, Dar hears what Kan’oh never will. This woman will never break; she’ll die first.

 

_“Shando’fen!”_ Dar calls above the woman’s agony. _Master!_

 

He whips around to face her, shock and fury burning in his gaze. He points the agoniser at her, sending a writhing lash of energy to envelop her body. Dar stands still, clenches her fists and fights against the urge to scream. In the end, she screams anyway.

 

When the energy dissipates, she whimpers, but lifts her heavy head to meet his gaze again. “ _Shando’fen_ ,” she repeats again. “I ask you to give her to me, please,” she says in carefully articulated _Dom’ruun_ , as she climbs out on a limb she hopes won’t be sawed off behind her by this woman she knows nothing about except that she is _Human_.

 

_“What?”_ he roars staring at her with patent disbelief. She surprises even herself that she would speak out. Here, she is not exactly known for her conversational skills.

 

“Give her to me and in five days I will teach her to bow before you,” she replies. “I will teach her that you are the Master and she the slave. Right now she doesn’t understand—I doubt she barely understands the rudiments of _Dom’ruun_. Give her to me and I will ready her for your special client’s needs.”

 

“And how would you know that she’s for a _special_ client?” he demands. “How would you know his _needs_?

 

“I know only that I’ve been hearing her scream for over two _silaro_ now, yet there is not a mark on her,” she replies quietly, guessing that the screaming she’s been hearing for the last half hour came from this woman. “You’ve not used the lash nor done anything to bruise or mar her in order to gain the compliance you wish. That tells me that you’ve already lined up a client—one with particular tastes … one that would be very displeased to see any marks upon her when he partakes of her. Give her to me, _Shando’fen_ , and I will teach her to know her place.”

 

She studies him through her lashes without seeming to, and can see in his grey eyes, the need to break this woman personally warring with the thought of the kind of profit he would make off this special order.

 

But she knows what he’ll choose in the end … what he will always choose.

 

_“Take her!”_ he snarls and sends another writhing pulse of energy into Dar. This time, it brings her to her hands and knees as she screams in agony. “You have three days,” he says as her screams abate.

 

“Thank you, _Shando’fen_ ,” she gasps out, her head still bowed before him. “She will be ready in three days.”

 

“See that she is,” he growls and she hears the threat inherent in that statement; if the woman is not ready, then Dar would pay. She would pay dearly.

 

“Yes, _Shando’fen_.”

 

She remains on her knees as he stomps away, and then there is the slap of bare feet against the floor, the whisper of dresses and soft voices as the other slaves leave, chattering among themselves, no doubt, about her uncharacteristic defence of the woman and near challenge of Kan’oh.

 

One of the guards releases the woman’s restraints and she falls to the ground with a hoarse cry, breathing raggedly.

 

Dar rises; nerves, muscles and bones aching as she makes her way over to the crumpled figure. “Do you understand me?” she asks in English.

 

“Yes,” rattles the hoarse reply. The woman lifts her head, staring at Dar in shock as recognition dawns in her blue eyes. “You’re _Hu-Human_ ... th-thank you,” she stammers out.

 

“Can you get up? Can you walk?”

 

The woman tries to rise, but collapses back to the floor as her strength gives out. Dar nods to the guard, who picks the woman up, cradling her head to his shoulder.

 

“The agoniser not only stimulates all your nerve endings,” she continues as the guard follows her from the display room. “It weakens the muscles and saps the strength.”

 

Once inside her room, she directs the guard to place the woman on the bed. Dar notices with some surprise that it has been remade with fresh sheets and makes a mental note to thank Imssan later. She sits on the edge of the bed and places her hand on the woman’s head. She’s a bit warm, but there’s nothing to indicate that it’s anything more than the exertion.

 

“Leave us—find Imssan,” she orders the guard, switching to _Dom’ruun_ , but he stands his ground, obstinate. “Leave us and find Imssan,” she reiterates. “Tell him to bring a bowl of cold water and a couple of clean rags. Her system is overheating from the repeated use of the agoniser, and if I don’t get her temperature down, she _will_ be sick. Then nothing I can do will get her ready in time for the _Shando’fen’s_ client!”

 

As soon as the guard leaves, Dar brings her face down close to the woman’s under the pretext of checking her eyes. “Quiet now—there may be spy-tech. Who are you?” she asks in English. “How did you get here?”

 

“Kathryn,” the woman whispers and Dar’s heart soars at the blessedly normal _Human_ name. “I came to the Fen’Domar Empire on a ship called _Voyager_. We were hoping to trade for passage through their space. The governor of the boarder planet where we made the request tried to kidnap one of my people—kidnapped me instead—sent me here to be trained for his pleasure. What about you?”

 

Kathryn winces as Dar probes a bruise starting to form just below her right breast. Kan’oh has not been careful enough.

 

“You can call me Dar,” she replies, her lips close to Kathryn’s ear. “I don’t know how I got here. My people and I were fighting to secure a vital power source from a powerful enemy; they captured me. I was being held prisoner—had been for weeks, maybe months. I tried to escape. The next thing I remember, I’m waking up here in this place. Apparently, I was in some kind of cryogenic stasis, I’m told.”

 

There is sympathy in the woman’s blue eyes; Dar looks away as Imssan enters with the bowl of water.  He hands her a couple clean pieces of cloth and places the bowl on the low seat she drags closer to the bed. Out of one of his many pockets, he pulls two small, familiar jars as well as a phial of the restorative.

 

“I’ve brought some of the salve that works so well on your bruised muscles,” he says, “and a new jar of skin cream.”

 

“Thank you—before you leave, please bring another sheet and some clothing for her.”

 

He nods before ducking into the bathroom. Dar dips the first cloth into the water, wrings it out and places the cool compress across Kathryn’s brow. She tries to raise her hand in protest, but Dar swats it away impatiently.

 

“Lie still,” she orders the other woman in English. “I’ve let the guard know that if we do not bring down your temperature, you will not be ready for your duties towards your client.”

 

Kathryn studies her shrewdly for a moment before nodding her understanding. Dar picks up the second rag, wets it and begins to wash away the accumulated sweat and dirt.

 

When Imssan returns with the clothing, she is washing Kathryn’s breasts and lower abdomen. Kathryn’s eyes are closed. Dar feels her embarrassment and ignores it.

 

The old alien drops his bundle at the foot of the bed before scurrying out.

 

She works quickly and clinically; at least this is something she’s done before ... at times when there was no need for a diplomat or linguist, and the most important thing she could offer a fellow Human being was a little comfort.

 

After thoroughly cleaning the woman’s front, Dar rolls her over and does the same for her back. Using the top sheet already on the bed, she dries her off and then proceeds to mix equal parts of the salve and cream, rubbing it into Kathryn’s skin with firm, yet gentle motions.

 

“It has a topical analgesic that will soothe the pain in your muscles, and the cream will keep your skin from drying out,” she explains. “You should be able to move freely within an hour or two.”

 

She helps Kathryn put on the clothing, and manages to tug the damp top sheet out from under her unresponsive body. Wiping her hands on it, she bundles it up and throws it into the laundry chute before hurrying over to the small table—on which she’s allowed to keep a jug of water and a glass.

 

Pouring a glass of water, she mixes half of the restorative into it before returning to the bed and helping Kathryn to sit up and drink. “It’s important to keep you hydrated,” she says holding the glass to the other woman’s lips as she drinks gratefully. “Neuro-muscular recovery from the agoniser is much worse if you’re dehydrated.”

 

“You speak their language very well,” Kathryn says in a quiet—careful—voice.

 

“I’ve had time to learn.”

 

The silence stretches out between them.

 

“In another life, I was a linguist and a diplomat,” she whispers.

 

She feels Kathryn’s warm fingers curl about her own and briefly squeeze her hand. “And perhaps in another life, you can be so again,” she says gently.

 

As Dar meets her gaze, she refuses to give in to hope, for hope is a killer in this place.  Kathryn raises her hands from her lap, and gracefully as butterflies in flight, words spill from her fingertips to dance in the silent air between them.

 

_< You know ASL, Dar?>_ she signs.

 

Dar’s breath catches in her tight chest as she remembers to breathe again. Biting her lip, she signs a simple, _< Yes>_.

 

_< I am Captain Kathryn Janeway of the starship Voyager; my crew will be coming for me—for us.>_

 

#

 

_She doesn’t smile, not that there is much to smile about in this place_ , Kathryn decides studying the thin, worn face beneath the mass of heavy brown hair that curls about her shoulders and cascades down her back almost to her waist. But under different circumstances, Kathryn knows that a smile on that face would be a thing of beauty ... would light it up, bringing an impish sparkle to those dull, green eyes.

 

Dar is a beautiful woman, and in those moments when she called out the slaver in that alien language—took the punishment that had been meant for Kathryn—she’d appeared to Kathryn’s blurred, pain-wracked vision as a _Valkyrie_ ... an avenging angel ... a goddess ...

 

But the flash of hope in her eyes when Kathryn revealed her identity—and that her ship and crew would come for them—had been all too brief. She can see that the younger woman has already suppressed it in the face of the practical realities of their current situation.

 

Dar is speaking to a brawny, young Fen’Domar in that incomprehensible language and Kathryn wishes she had a translator. It’s a terse, heated exchange, and the alien male bristles with anger, but Dar holds her ground until he acquiesces and stomps away. In the hallway, two alien females stand aside to let him pass. One wears a brief shift similar to what she and Dar are wearing, while the other is entirely naked.

 

_A brothel. I’m in a bloody alien brothel!_

 

A shudder races up her spine; if it weren’t so frighteningly real, it would almost be ludicrous. Starfleet prepares its officers for a lot of things; fighting for your life, withstanding physical torture—and even withstanding psychological torture—and certainly they try to prepare you to face the inevitability of death. But nothing prepares you for being slaved out and turned into nothing more than a plaything for someone else’s pleasure. Every officer knows that it is a possibility, but nothing prepares you for the nightmarish reality of it.

 

After that first moment of hope faded, Dar had simply said, _“As soon as your muscles are working again, we should begin.”_

 

Kathryn could only nod dumbly. Already the pins and needles sensation permeates not only her limbs, but her entire body. If her people don’t find them in time, then facing the lecherous _Shenloral’fen_ Aru’nor will be a reality, and even after everything she’s been through this past ten years since her ship has been lost in uncharted space, Kathryn doesn’t think it’s something she can survive.

 

“I didn’t think it was something I could survive either,” the younger woman says, startling Kathryn out of her introspection; she didn’t realise she’d spoken that last despairing thought aloud. “And there are days I don’t think I _have_ survived. Most days I just feel like I’m existing here; and then one day, I’ll simply cease to exist.”

 

She doesn’t wait for Kathryn to respond. Forging ahead, she asks, “Do you practise _Yoga_ or _Tai Chi_?”

 

A strange question, but Kathryn goes with it. “Not really, but I can get along in either if needs be—I’ve had some instruction in Vulcan _Kolinar_. Why?”

 

“I’ve explained to Kaan’och that you’re very religious.” Kathryn’s eyebrows rise at the seeming _non sequitur_. “I’ve explained that this is the reason you refused to address Kan’oh as _Shando’fen_ —that in your misunderstanding of _Dom’ruun_ , you’ve confused the word meaning “master” with the word for “God”— _Shenlor’Dofen_. And you were more afraid to blaspheme against your _God_ than you were of his father, Kan’oh.”

 

Kathryn gapes in surprise at the innovative _“explanation”_ as Dar continues, “I told him that if you were allowed to pray according to the practises of Yoga or Tai Chi or which ever church you follow, I would teach you to pronounce his title and that of his illustrious client, as well as to understand and perform the more basic orders you might receive in bed. It’s the best I can do in the three days he’s given me.”

 

Kathryn nods, signing, _< And Yoga?>_

 

_< Easier to hide ASL use.>_

 

_< Understood.>_

 

_< You lead and I follow—easier for me to cover stumbles as unfamiliar with your religion. They have seen me do Yoga when I should have been exercising. I told them it is a form of prayer among my people. They have not bothered me about it since.>_

 

_< Brilliant!> _Kathryn signs quickly. _< I will use simple movements—leave our hands free for speaking. We can do it facing each other.>_

 

She catches Kathryn’s hands and silences them. _< Use sparingly, or they might catch on to mode of communication.>_

 

Kathryn nods and Dar continues aloud. “We should begin your pronunciation of _Shando’fen_.”

 

_“Shando’fen,”_ Kathryn dutifully repeats.

 

Dar shakes her head. “You must listen closely to all parts of the word—lengthen the _“ah”_ sound and quickly clip the _“oh”_ sound without making it an _“och”_ sound, before adding the _“fen”_ in a louder, more ringing tone. Try again— _Shaaahndoh! FENN!_ The _“fen”_ part of their species name and titles is rather like an exhortation to celebrate their species—tonalities matter in this language and it’s very important to get that right.”

 

Kathryn stares at her in surprise and open admiration. After everything the Fen’Domar slavers have done to her—that Dar can still retain enough of her objectivity to make observations of such depth about this culture speaks highly of her character and intelligence. It would be so much easier to write them off as _barbarians_.

 

Vowing to pay closer attention, Kathryn begins her language lessons in earnest. She would never forgive herself if her new friend was punished or put in greater jeopardy because of her.

 

#

 

They sleep that night in the same bed—Dar spoons against Kathryn’s back, their thin clothes doing nothing to hide their bodies from each other. Dar can feel that the smaller woman is uncomfortable with the arrangement, but the starship captain doesn’t fight her on it.

 

“What are your people like?”

 

Kathryn doesn’t answer her right away, and in those few moments of silence, Dar thinks her companion has fallen asleep.

 

“They’re good people,” Kathryn replies at last. “And I’m proud to be their captain. A decade ago, a powerful alien flung my ship to the opposite side of the galaxy—into the delta quadrant, over 70,000 light years from the Federation and Earth. Faced with a journey that could take 70 or more years to complete, I wouldn’t have blamed them if they’d wanted to find a planet and set up a colony. But I asked them to follow me in a bid to get home—and they did … they put their trust in me. I can’t fail them.”

 

“It must have been devastating to find your hyper drive was so badly damaged that it would take you so long to get home,” Dar says sympathetically, and feels Kathryn stiffen in her arms. “Was there no way to fix it—get you home faster?”

 

Kathryn turns in her embrace to face her, and even through the dimness of the bedroom, Dar can see her confused expression. “Hyper drive?” she asks quizzically. “My ship doesn’t use a hyper drive—it uses a warp drive … like the ships of most space-faring species in the galaxy, including the Fen’Domar. It utilizes subspace to travel, not hyperspace. Hyperspace is generally too unstable to travel in—not to mention you’re practically blind, and the dangers of crashing into the barriers between other dimensions and realities …”

 

She pushes herself up on one elbow and looks down shrewdly into Dar’s eyes. “Where do you come from, Dar? I can tell that it’s never even occurred to you that those ships out there used anything other than hyper drives. You’ve never heard of a warp drive, have you?”

 

“It’s not exactly something that comes up in conversation in a place like this.” Kathryn recoils from the fury in her voice. “Forget I said anything,” she whispers and turns away, drawing her knees up to her chest.

 

She tries to blank out her mind, but it’s too late; thoughts of hyper drives inevitably lead to other thoughts ... of things she would rather forget. Then the tears come; painfully and inexorably, they come.

 

She’s vaguely aware when Kathryn leaves the bed and comes around to her side. Sitting down on the edge, she gently strokes Dar’s hair and back. She traces the line of her jaw and the path of her tears.

 

“I’m sorry to have brought up such painful memories,” Kathryn whispers hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to pry and it was never my intention to upset you—your question simply caught me by surprise. Earth—the Federation on the whole—hasn’t really dabbled in hyperspace for over three hundred years … not since the early years of space travel when we were still trying to perfect a reliable and safe means of faster than light travel, and not since we had a tendency to lose ships to the vagaries of the hyper barriers, unexpected solar flares, rifts, collapsed stars and hyper window shearing. Subspace is slower, but seemed a bit more reliable and safe—in as far as anything about space travel could be considered _safe_.”

 

Dar’s breath comes in shudders as she forces herself to regain control. Three. Hundred. Years. _Earth hasn’t used hyperspace ships for over three hundred years_ , she thinks in despair as Kathryn’s words sink in. And suddenly it’s all too much to think about … to even contemplate.

 

Pulling herself together, she asks, “What year is it now on Earth?”

 

Again, Kathryn’s eyes are shrewd as they search Dar’s in the dim light. Then she sits up straight and folds her arms across her chest as she considers the question.

 

“Let’s see … as a Starfleet officer, I’m more apt in the use of stardates,” she mutters. “I’ve lost track in the last few days, but it should be around stardate 58530 right now, so that would put us at 2380, early December—Christmas would be in about twenty-two days give or take two or three days.”

 

Again, as the enormity of Kathryn’s words crashes over her, she is lost in a maelstrom of heartbreak and tears. This time, Kathryn gathers her up into a tight hug and holds her shaking body as she cries.

 

And she clings to Kathryn Janeway as she would cling to a piece of driftwood cast to the winds and the rains on a churning, storm-wracked ocean.

 

#

 

When Kan’oh comes in the middle of the third day, Kathryn isn’t expecting it. One moment she and Dar are practising their “Tai Chi” _prayers_ , the next Dar stiffens, stops mid-motion and stands with her head bowed. Kathryn turns around and seeing the master of the brothel, quickly assumes the same stance next to her friend.

 

Her heart is racing as he enters the room and circles her slowly.

 

He barks an order to Dar, and she hurries to the indicated corner by the door. He grounds out some more unintelligible words that Dar finally translates. 

 

“He’s here to test your progress, Kathryn,” she says quietly. “You are to address him as you would the _Shenloral’fen_.”

 

_“Fo sabe la, Shando’fen,”_ Kathryn replies slowly, bowing again to Kan’oh. _Understood, Master._

 

_“Don sa soa coan-hoch!”_ he orders. _Remove your clothing._

 

The dress she’s wearing today is a simple wrap held closed by a long sash. She unties it and slips it from her shoulders. She has never felt more exposed before in her life—even when he’d stripped her naked for her medical assessment.  All she’d been then was a piece of cargo received for inspection.

 

She doesn’t flinch now as he cups her breasts, running a rough finger over first one nipple, and then the other. Over his shoulder, she meets Dar’s steady gaze and holds onto it for dear life.

 

His hands run down her flanks to her ass.

 

_“Boan sha liral sufenodo noh honoen.” Assume position for male pleasure._

 

_“Shenloral’fen, ira suun onlo soa sufenodo,”_ Kathryn says carefully. _My Lord, I am for your pleasure._ She turns, bends at the waist and places her hands flat on the bed.

 

She feels him behind her, studying her as she tries to ignore the waves of humiliation coursing through her. Then his hands are on her again, tugging at the last piece of clothing she’s wearing. She feels the slip of cloth as her underwear slides down her legs, and the fear and humiliation becomes a painfully live thing twisting in her gut.

 

Grabbing her thighs, he forces her legs further apart and she belatedly remembers Dar’s instructions to go up on her toes. His hands caress the inside of her thighs and another wave of fear washes over her.  Dar has said that he wouldn’t dare touch her before his client is finished with her, but at this moment, she doesn’t believe that.

 

_“Boan sha dosa noh honoen.” Assume lady’s position._

 

_“Shenloral’fen, ira suun onlo soa sufenodo,”_ she repeats hoarsely.

 

She climbs onto the bed, lies down on her back and brings her knees up. _A lady is allowed to face her lord; a whore is solely for his pleasure._

 

But there is no difference for her as she turns her head to meet Dar’s anxious gaze again. Here, a starship captain can only be a whore, and she doesn’t think she can bear it. She’d rather go down fighting that submit to _this_. But there are tears in Dar’s eyes and her hands are balled into fists; she too, cannot bear this.

 

She feels his hands between her legs, probing, touching, examining … and turning her head she focuses on a spot on the ceiling. Captain Janeway is up there and so is Kathryn; all that’s left here is a body.

 

_‘Stick to the plan … stick to the plan …’_ they whisper to her. _‘You’re not alone in this. Captain Janeway will not leave anyone behind and neither will Kathryn.’_ And neither will _she_.

 

Suddenly, she realizes that Kan’oh is no longer inspecting her, but speaking to Dar by the door. She rolls on her side, her back to them and draws up her legs, trying to make no sound as she cries.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dar says hoarsely. “He’s gone now—let’s get you dressed.”  Kathryn doesn’t move or say anything; nothing comes from her but tears. “Please, Kathryn,” she pleads softly. “I can’t stay. I’ve been put back on display—it’s been two and a half days and he won’t let me off any longer.”

 

_‘You’re not alone in this.’_ It echoes in her mind and she dries her eyes. Giving in to her emotions right now would only mean a world of hurt for Dar—and while she has a brief respite until _Shenloral’fen_ Aru’nor comes to claim his _prize_ , her friend doesn’t have that luxury. Dar will have to endure the humiliation and degradation of this life for a while longer. She insists that it would draw too much attention for her to object to clients now—to do anything out of the ordinary. _‘Stick to the plan.’_

Kathryn remembers the younger woman’s pain from the night before as they made their plans in hushed whispers and fluttering fingers.

 

_< I only have the strength to do this a little while longer,>_ Dar had signed; Kathryn had never seen anyone with dead eyes before, but now she knew what the old saying meant. _< If your crew doesn’t come, we’ll try for the shuttle they found me in—I think it’s still in the station’s docking bay. I may still be able to access it.> _

Kathryn knew what she meant; a last-ditch suicide mission with little hope of success. _ <But one way or another, I have to get out, Kathryn. Promise me I won’t stay here, no matter what!>_

 

_< I promise. We’ll both get out, no matter what.>_

 

“I’m sorry,” she says sitting up, grateful for Dar’s presence and help in this ordeal. Her friend pulls her into a tight hug.

 

“I know how hard it is,” Dar says stroking her naked back. “But it’s just for a little while longer—one way or another, just a little while longer.”

 

“Yes,” Kathryn whispers back, resting her forehead against Dar’s and looking deep into her emerald eyes. “Just a little while longer.”

 

#

 

_So much has changed so quickly_ , Dar realises as she sits on the edge of the high stool in her window display. She leans forward provocatively, holding the pose for as long as she can.

 

No matter how much she tries not to hope, it is inevitable … like the memories that flood back to her now. This is what Kathryn has brought into her life in the last few days. Sometimes, Dar hates her for it. There is so much that can go wrong—not the least of which is that Kathryn is counting on a crew that may or may not know where she is. And time is running out— _Shenloral’fen_ Aru’nor is early.  His ship will dock in another hour, and Kathryn’s being made ready to be presented to him.

 

_And I’m stuck in this damned window!_

 

She’s so caught up in her bitter introspection, she nearly misses it—the symbol Kathryn has told her to look out for. Curved olive branches … a symbol from the Federation flag and shield modelled on the old United Nations emblem she knows so well. It’s being worn by a group of rather fierce-looking aliens coming down from the station’s administration core. The female wears it on a large, golden medallion resting in the hollow of her throat, while the two males wear it on smaller medallions affixed to their sashes, along with other metal accoutrements. The aliens don’t resemble any species Dar has ever seen before.

 

_“Often a rescue must be accomplished in a clandestine manner,”_ Kathryn has said. _“We’ve had to learn the hard way to be proactive and deceptive. So they’ll be in disguise; even I’d be hard-pressed to tell who they are sometimes, especially if they’re disguised as members of the host species. Therefore, everyone is trained to know the visual symbols rescuers from Voyager will wear—and right now, it is olive branches.”_

 

The aliens stop a few metres away and are consulting a small, handheld device. The look on the female’s face grows thunderous, making the prominent ridges on her forehead seem even more frightening.

 

Dar rarely solicits clients verbally; most know what they’re looking for. This time, however, she takes the chance and tries to catch their attention, despite the guard standing in the display behind her. Reaching out, she taps the intercom.

 

“Are you looking for something particular, gentle beings?” she asks in the sexiest tone she can manage using _Dom’ruun_. Kathryn says that they’ll have translators; she hopes her friend is right. “Perhaps I can be what you desire.”

 

She can see their palpable surprise, especially in the almond-shaped eyes of the young male, whom she thinks would look Asian if he was Human.

 

“I’m S’Lena, First Daughter of the House of Tor—what would you know of my … _desires_ , slave?” the female demands forcefully.

 

“I can be anything you want, if given a chance,” she replies. “Even something you’ve lost, perhaps?”

 

They study her warily. Finally, the taller of the two males moves closer to the window, as the Asian-looking male suddenly looks down at his beeping instrument and then turns it over to the female.

 

“What talents do you possess that would make you worth our Mistress’ while?” the blue-eyed male asks. “I think she’s in the mood for rather _different_ fare.”

 

Dar’s breath caught in her throat, but forcing herself to be calm, she answers, “I can sing in my own language, dance, am well versed in the arts of pleasure—”

 

“Sing us something,” he orders harshly.

 

“All right,” she replies. “What about the _Lament to the King of the Tudors from his Aragon Queen_? Or perhaps _The Lady of Shallot_? They are songs of my people.” The male’s eyebrows shoot up among his forehead ridges.

 

“Get on with it,” the female growls impatiently.

 

Dar nods and begins to sing an old half-forgotten song—and prays that these people catch on.

 

_Alas, my love, you do me wrong,_

_To cast me off discourteously,_

_And I have loved you oh so long,_

_Delighting in your company._

_Greensleeves was my delight_

_Greensleeves my heart of gold_

_Greensleeves was my heart of joy_

_Who, but my lady, Greensleeves?_

 

The man’s blue eyes light up. “Continue!” he orders. “Or sing another.”

 

Taking a deep breath, she launches smoothly into the next song and quickly decides to try a bit of improvisation with it.

 

_On either side the river lie_

_Long fields of barley and of rye,_

_That clothe the world and meet the sky;_

_And through the field the road run by_

_To many-tower’d Camelot;_

_And up and down the people go,_

_Gazing where the lilies blow_

_Round an island there below,_

_The island of Shalott._

_Willows whiten, aspens quiver,_

_Little breezes dusk and shiver_

_Through the wave that runs forever_

_By the island in the river_

_Flowing down to Camelot._

_In the twelfth room of the fourth round tower,_

_Overlooking a space of flowers,_

_And the silent isle imbowers_

_The Lady of Shalott._

_By river’s margin, the willows cry,_

_As laden barges slip on by_

_And underneath a darkening sky,_

_A Titian maiden teary-eyed,_

_Waits for good Sir Lancelot._

_But who hath seen her wave her hand?_

_Or at the casement seen her stand?_

_Or is she known in all the land,_

_The Lady of Shalott?_

_Only the slaves, working early,_

_In among the bearded barley_

_Hear a song that echoes clearly_

_From the Lord who comes down cheerly;_

_To many tower’d Camelot;_

_And by the moon the reaper weary,_

_Piling sheaves in uplands airy,_

_Listening, whispers, “ ‘Tis the fairy_

_The Lady of Shalott.”_

_There she weaves by night and day_

_A magic web with colours gay._

_And all have heard the whispers say,_

_Her maidenhood’s lost if she stay_

_To look down to Camelot._

_She knows not what the curse may be,_

_And so she weaveth steadily,_

_And little other care hath she,_

_The Lady of Shalott._

_And moving through a mirror clear_

_That hangs before her all the year,_

_Shadows of the world appear._

_There she sees the highway near_

_Winding down to Camelot;_

_And sometimes through the mirror blue_

_The knights come riding two and two._

_Hath she loyal Knights and true,_

_This Lady of Shalott?_

_But in her web she still delights_

_To weave the mirror’s magic sights,_

_Warriors who come in the silent nights_

_In a procession, with plumes and lights_

_And broadswords, down to Camelot;_

_Or when the Moon was overhead,_

_Came two young lovers lately wed._

_“I am half sick of shadows,” said_

_The Lady of Shalott._

_A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,_

_He rode between the barley sheaves,_

_The sun came dazzling thru’ the leaves,_

_And flamed upon the brazen greaves_

_Of bold Sir Lancelot._

_Olive-branched knights forever kneel_

_To that lady in his shield,_

_That sparkled on the yellow field,_

_Beside remote Shalott._

_Like a bird she longs to fly free,_

_Up to some branch or stars we see_

_Hung in the golden Galaxy,_

_Far from her place of captivity_

_Away from royal Camelot._

_From the bank and from the river_

_He flashed into the crystal mirror,_

_“Tirra lirra,” by the river_

_Sang Sir Lancelot._

_She left the web, she left the loom,_

_She made three paces through the room,_

_She saw the water-lily bloom,_

_She saw the helmet and the plume,_

_She look’d down to Camelot._

_Out flew the web and floated wide;_

_The mirror crack’d from side to side;_

_“The curse is come upon me,” cried_

_The Lady of Shalott._

_In the stormy east-wind straining,_

_The pale yellow woods were waning,_

_The broad stream in his banks complaining._

_Heavily the low sky raining_

_Over tower’d Camelot;_

_Down she came and found a boat_

_Beneath a willow left afloat,_

_And around about the prow she wrote_

_The Lady of Shalott._

_Lying there robed in snowy white_

_An hour before the Lord takes his right –_

_And then her tears be falling light –_

_Through the noises of the night,_

_As she floated down to Camelot:_

_For ere she reach’d upon the tide_

_The first house by the water-side,_

_Singing in her song she died,_

_The Lady of Shalott._

_Under tower and balcony,_

_By garden-wall and gallery,_

_A gleaming shape she floated by,_

_Dead-pale between the houses high,_

_Silent into Camelot._

_Out upon the wharfs they came,_

_Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,_

_And around the prow they read her name,_

_The Lady of Shalott._

_Who is this? And what is here?_

_And in the lighted palace near_

_Died the sound of royal cheer;_

_And they crossed themselves for fear,_

_All the Knights at Camelot;_

_But Lancelot mused a little space_

_He said, “She has a lovely face;_

_May God grant her mercy in this place,_

_This Lady of Shalott.”_

 

#

 

“Okay, so this _Dar_ is Human—why did you insist that I reserve her? Why did you stop me—why not let me go in and scan for the captain?” B’Elanna Torres demands as soon as the camouflaged _Delta Flyer’s_ hatch closed. “And what the hell was all that singing about?”

 

“Because we already know that the captain’s there!” her husband, Tom Paris, says excitedly. “And Dar knows her.”

 

“How do you know for sure? There’s a shield up around that place.”

 

“ _Lament to the King of the Tudors from his Aragon Queen_?” Paris laughs at her confusion. “B’Elanna, the King of the Tudors was Henry the Eighth of England—and the Aragon Queen was _Catherine_ of Aragon. Henry set up a whole new _religion_ so that he could divorce Catherine and marry a string of wives in an attempt to produce a male heir!” he said chuckling at his wife’s flabbergasted expression. “This woman knows the captain, B’Elanna, and she probably knows where in that place she is!”

 

“Oh she knows more than that,” Harry Kim says looking up from his console, his face pale with shock. “That second song was a code—really clever too!”

 

“A code? How?” the fourth member of the rescue party, Lieutenant Miguel Ayala, asks.

 

“ _The Lady of Shallot_ is an epic Arthurian poem by the ancient Earth poet, Lord Tennyson,” Kim replies as they all turn their attention to him. “Now she sang a considerably shortened version of it and she changed some of the verses. The changed verses are the code.”

 

He turns his screen to show them. “On this side was the original poem, while on the other side, the woman’s version I recorded with the changes highlighted,” he says. “Now read the highlighted sections.”

 

Paris clears his throat and then reads the woman’s message.

 

_“In the twelfth room of the fourth round tower,_

_Overlooking a space of flowers,_

 

_By river’s margin, the willows cry,_

_As laden barges slip on by_

_And underneath a darkening sky,_

_A Titian maiden teary-eyed,_

_Waits for good Sir Lancelot.”_

 

“Titian was an ancient Terran painter who liked to paint red-haired women,” Paris explains before he resumes reading.

 

_“Only the slaves, working early,_

_Hear a song that echoes clearly_

_From the Lord who comes down cheerly;_

_To many tower’d Camelot;_

 

_And all have heard the whispers say,_

_Her maidenhood’s lost if she stay_

_To look down to Camelot._

 

_Hath she loyal Knights and true,_

_This Lady of Shalott?_

 

_Warriors who come in the silent nights_

_In a procession, with plumes and lights_

_And broadswords, down to Camelot;_

 

_Olive-branched knights forever kneel_

_To that lady in his shield,_

 

“Olive branches—the captain told her what symbol to look for—it’s how Dar identified us,” Kim murmurs as Paris continues to read.

 

_Like a bird she longs to fly free,_

_Up to some branch or stars we see_

_Hung in the golden Galaxy,_

_Far from her place of captivity_

_Away from royal Camelot._

 

_Lying there robed in snowy white_

_An hour before the Lord takes his right –_

_And then her tears be falling light –_

_Through the noises of the night,_

_As she floats down to Camelot:_

 

_May God grant her mercy in this place,_

_This Lady of Shalott.”_

 

Paris’ voice is hoarse by the time he finishes; as the meaning dawns fully on him, the blood drains from his face, leaving it stark and pale even beneath his Klingon disguise.

 

“B’Elanna,” he croaks. “We have less than an hour to get her out of there. Aru’nor is coming for her _now_.”  At B’Elanna’s confused expression, he points to the screen and reiterates lines from the poem. “Lying there robed in snowy white, an _hour_ before the _Lord takes his right_ ,” he says before going back a bit to another verse. “And all have heard the whispers say, _her_ _maidenhood’s lost if she stay_.” His blue eyes harden. “He’s here now and he’s going to rape her, B’Elanna. We all know that’s why he came here—and why not? His cartel is part owner in this station and probably the _brothel_ as well!”

 

“Alright, Tom,” Torres says taking charge again. “You and Harry stay here. Be ready to get us out and leave as soon as we beam aboard. “Ayala, you’re with me. Get two extra transport enhancement armbands, the modified Type One phasers and load up on the transphasic grenades—make sure nothing is emitting a signature until it’s activated.”

 

The big security officer nods and heads to the weapons locker; he’s a tall, powerful human—and as a Klingon, he’s formidable.

 

“I take it the extra armband is for this woman, Dar?” Ayala notes as he retrieves the needed weapons.

 

Torres’ eyes are hard as she replies. “After what she’s just done to help us, I get the feeling that the captain will have our _heads_ if we leave her behind in this place. How much money do we have left?” she asks Tom, who immediately checks his tricorder.

 

“Almost twenty-five thousand,” he replies. “We had to get those emitter coils to make our cover look good.”

 

“Think it’ll be good enough to make me look like a major player crashing the scene with serious cash to burn?” she asks him with a speculative look.

 

“Sure—on a cursory examination,” he replies, “especially with that account the Cazenchin Traders transferred to us in exchange for the Bocerra Pearls. Why?”

 

“Because this spoiled Klingon Princess is going shopping!” she says with a feral grin as she heads to the replicator. “And she intends on doing serious damage to _Daddy’s_ credit line!”

 

#

 

Dar’s nervousness rises in her throat as she sits on the edge of her bed waiting for the aliens to return. They’ve put her on reserve for the next two hours; Kaan’och is very excited about the exorbitant price the alien woman was willing to pay for the privilege.

 

But Dar doesn’t care about that; Kathryn is running out of time. By her estimation, there’s less than twenty minutes before Aru’nor arrives. She’s so engrossed in her own thoughts that she doesn’t see the alien female arrive.

 

Suddenly, in a seeming moment of inattention, S’Lena, is standing in the doorway, furious and haughty, with a distinctly feral look in her eyes. She’s changed her clothes, wearing only a leather bustier that prominently displays her breasts and tight pants that accentuates everything else. She wears a number of ornate silver metal bracelets about both arms from wrist to bicep. Behind her stands Kaan’och and another alien male—this one tall and hulking.

 

The woman growls; Dar feels a chill race up her back as she rises and bows her head in submission. In a flash, the woman springs on her, knocking her back onto the bed and straddling her hips.

 

Suddenly, a stinging, fiery pain races along Dar’s jaw, and as she cries out in shock, she realises that the alien has bitten her! Panic overtakes her and she fears that she’s misconstrued the symbol—that these aren’t Kathryn’s people after all.

 

“Your blood is sweet!” S’Lena growls loudly and licks her jaw line to her ear. “Follow my lead,” she whispers in Dar’s ear, “and we’ll get both of you out.”

 

She moves her lips back to Dar’s and kisses her deeply, again biting her lip with sharp teeth and drawing blood. Suddenly, she begins sniffing Dar’s body—bizarre behaviour even for an alien.

 

“I can smell your arousal,” she declares rearing back. “And I smell another on you! Is her blood as sweet?”

 

Dar nods dumbly, still reeling from the sense of shock and disconnection with what is happening. S’Lena gets off her and turns to face Kaan’och.

 

“Where is the other of her species?” she demands, licking blood-stained lips. “I _want_ her.”

 

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Kaan’och replies. “She’s already being prepared for another client.”

 

Lightening fast, S’Lena flies across the room. Before Kaan’och can react, she swats him with a stinging backhand that sends the big man sprawling. Dar’s shock skyrockets; though the alien female is smaller than her, she’s obviously a hell of a lot stronger. Kaan’och is over two hundred pounds of solid muscle, if he is an ounce.

 

“Insolent _p’taq_!” she roars in fury. “You _dare_ to tell me what I cannot have?”

 

“Mistress!” the alien male growls loudly, as Kaan’och scuttles backwards, away from the furious female. “I’m sure he does not dare take such liberty, my Mistress. Kaan’och, is this second female currently engaged with a client?”

 

“No, but the one who has purchased her will be here within the _silaro_ to claim her,” Kaan’och replies as he levers himself up from the floor. “And he does not like his property touched before he partakes.”

 

The alien male holds up three gold-toned one-thousand credit wafers.  Dar can see Kaan’och’s posture stiffen—she can almost taste his greed. “Then give my Mistress a chance to assess this other female _before_ he gets here. If she pleases her, then we will purchase her when your client is _finished_ with her.”

 

He holds the credit wafers out to Kaan’och. “Consider this a down payment on your … _co-operation_.”

 

Kaan’och snatches the wafers from him and skirts past S’Lena, staying out of arm’s reach. “Be quiet and follow me,” he says. “We have to hurry. My father has gone to fetch the client, personally.”

 

“Bring her,” S’Lena orders her male companion as she stalks from the room following slaver.

 

The alien man catches Dar by the right arm. Quickly snapping a silver metal bracelet around her upper bicep, he winks at her and smacks something against the doorframe as he pulls her roughly from the room, hurrying down the curved corridor after his mistress.

 

“Why bring her?” Kaan’och demands as he fumbles the lock on the door of the VIP suite.

 

“Because I want to see how my baubles look together,” the alien woman growls as she pushes roughly past him into the room. “I like it when they … _compliment_ each other.”

 

Dar stumbles past Kaan’och as the alien man pushes her into the room. Kathryn is already standing, dressed in brief, sheer slip with a matching peignoir over it. S’Lena stalks around her, growling and sniffing; Kathryn looks on with an expression of mild bemusement.

 

“A bit on the scrawny side,” S’Lena pronounces, a feral grin splitting her fearsome features. “But she’ll do.”

 

Before Dar can catch her bearings, an energy beam shoots out from a small weapon—which appears in the alien man’s hand as if by magic—and hits Kaan’och squarely in the middle of his chest. The slaver doesn’t have the chance to utter even a startled cry as he keels over and remains motionless.

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant Ayala,” Kathryn says as the man grins and tosses her another of the small energy weapons. S’Lena is snapping one of the silver metal bands around Kathryn’s upper arm. “As soon as we get back to the _Delta Flyer_ , scan the docking bay for a cylindrical shuttle with recessed pods. Beam it out and take it in tow as we go to warp.”

 

“Understood, captain,” S’Lena replies smartly. “Harry did you get that?”

 

“Scanning now, Torres,” a disembodied voice replied.

 

Kathryn smiles as she holds her hand out to Dar. “Come on,” she says eagerly. “Stand close to me—we’re getting out of here.”

 

Dar returns her smile in relief and runs to her. As if in slow motion, she sees the part of the wall behind Kathryn disappear. A furious Kan’oh is standing there with a richly-dressed _Shenloral’fen_ , and holding an agoniser pointed directly at Kathryn.

 

Pulling Kathryn into her arms, she swings her around and screams as the searing wave of agony engulfs her. Kathryn’s blue eyes are wide and shocked as Dar’s body loses all feeling and she slumps against her, bringing her to her knees.

 

Kathryn is screaming something Dar can’t understand—a massive explosion thunders through her mind, and the universe itself seems to shake with the might and the fury of it. Before her eyes, Kathryn begins to fade from existence ... and then, blackness.

 

#

 

 


	2. Part 2

**Be My Homeward Dove**

 

Part 2

 

As soon as they materialise on the transporter platform, B’Elanna starts shouting orders. “Tom, get back here! Medical emergency! Ayala, take the helm—get us out of here. Maximum warp!”

 

B’Elanna kneels next to Janeway, who is cradling the other woman in her arms, calling her name in the most horribly broken voice.

 

“Let me take her, captain,” B’Elanna says gently. “Please, Kathryn, we have to get her to the bio-bed if we’re going to save her.”

 

B’Elanna’s words seem to snap Janeway out of her immobility. B’Elanna slips her arms underneath Dar and picks her up; she’s surprisingly light for a woman her height. Kathryn rises, carefully holding Dar’s head so that it doesn’t fall back dangerously.

 

Tom is already hurrying past them, opening the hatch to the rear compartment and pulling the bio-bed from its recessed alcove. Carefully, he helps B’Elanna transfer the woman onto the bed and begins scanning her with a medical tricorder.

 

“She and the captain were hit with a blast from some kind of neural disrupter,” B’Elanna reports as she hands him the weapon she’s retrieved. Turning her attention back to the injured woman, she’s shocked to find an openly-weeping Janeway reaching again for Dar’s hand.

 

Paris scans the weapon for a few moments and then hurries to the replicator, quickly ordering a hypospray. Not even attempting to separate their captain from the woman, he steps around to the other side of the bed and dispenses the hypospray’s contents against Dar’s neck.

 

Dar suddenly comes to with a pained moan that ends in an agonised gasp and gives way to a sudden seizure.

 

_“Dar!”_ Kathryn cries hoarsely, attempting to hold the other woman down; B’Elanna can tell that her intrepid captain is nowhere in the room at the moment.

 

Tom quickly affixes a pair of cortical stimulators to Dar’s temples and taps some orders into the bio-bed’s console.  The seizures stop as suddenly as they’d started and the woman’s body quiets down. She whimpers as her eyes fly open. B’Elanna notices that they’re jade green with large, unfocused pupils.

 

_“Kathryn,”_ she croaks softly. It’s like a prayer, the way she says Janeway’s name.

 

“I’m here, Dar,” Kathryn whispers back, bringing her tear-streaked face close to her friend’s and stroking the damp, chocolate brown curls.

 

The woman shakes her head sorrowfully. “Not Dar,” she whispers, voice laden with exhaustion. “Not Dar— _Elizabeth_ ,” she slurs breathily, eyes fluttering shut again. “M’ name’s Elizabeth … Dr. Elizabeth Weir …”

 

#

 

Chakotay enters sickbay on the run, praying that Kathryn is fine. The _Delta Flyer_ has come in hot with casualties and a small craft in tow. Kim’s reported that the captain—and another woman they’d rescued—have been hit by the discharge from a neural disruptor.

 

After a decade of travelling halfway across the galaxy, he knows that if there is any way Kathryn could have reported, she would have. But neural disruptors are notoriously nasty weapons, and depending on the type, could conceivably turn someone’s nervous system to mush.

 

He stops short as he enters, shocked by the scene. The captain is on her feet arguing with the Doctor. She’s barefoot, wearing some sort of see-through lingerie, and seems unconcerned with that fact. Torres stands impotently on the sidelines holding a bundle of light blue clothing. On the bio-bed beneath the main diagnostic cluster, lies a strange, dark-haired woman—apparently unconscious.  Paris, who is still in his Klingon disguise, is monitoring her vitals.

 

“I’m fine!” Kathryn shouts belligerently. “I only caught the edge of the blast. Dar—Elizabeth caught the entire discharge.”

 

“Captain, your friend is holding her own right now,” the Doctor says impatiently. “Once this round of neural acclimation therapy is completed, we’ll start on the procedure to remove those alien nano-probes from her system and then another round of acclimation therapy to ensure neural stability. But you’ll do her _no good_ if you don’t allow me to treat your own neural shock!”

 

“Captain,” Torres interjects, stepping quickly between her commanding officer and the Doctor before Kathryn can work up a head of steam again. “Why don’t you go and change?” she says, thrusting the bundle of clothes into her surprised captain’s arms. “Then once you’re ready, you can come back and get Chakotay’s report while the Doctor does your check-up.”

 

Kathryn frowns, lips thinning out of existence for a moment before she nods, turns on her heel and marches into the sickbay change room.

 

As the door snicks shut behind her, Torres turns on the Doctor, face dark with fury. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

 

“What?” The doctor takes a step back, shocked by the half-Klingon woman’s rage.

 

“The captain’s obviously distraught,” Torres bit out, “and you’re _arguing_ with her? That woman took a disruptor blast that was meant for the captain,” she says pointing to the bio-bed’s occupant, “and if you’d take a second to really look at what they’re wearing, you’d realise exactly the kind of _hellhole_ we found them in. You’d understand _exactly_ what that motherless _targ_ of a Fen’Domar governor wanted her for!”

 

Sudden realisation dawns on the Doctor and he nods his head dumbly. Torres takes a deep breath and stalks to the change room entrance. Chakotay follows her in silence; her angry words to the Doctor have shaken him to his core as well.

 

If Kathryn hadn’t recognised _Shenloral’fen_ Aru’nor’s intent for Annika and alerted the ship to beam her out of harm’s way, it would have been his wife—his _pregnant wife_ —the alien governor would have kidnapped.  But Kathryn had lost her combadge in ensuing fight and so she’d been taken instead.

 

“Torres—”

 

“Not now!” she growls from between clenched teeth, standing at parade rest as she waits for the change room door to open. Considering her for a moment longer, Chakotay assumes the same posture.

 

Moments later, the door opens and a pale Kathryn Janeway exits, dressed in the blue sickbay tunic and pants. Her red-rimmed eyes are the only things to mar the image of the perfect Starfleet captain.

 

“Report, commander,” she orders quietly, walking over to the bio-bed the Doctor is waiting at.

 

Chakotay falls into step with her, speaking as they cover the short distance. “There isn’t much to report, captain,” he replies. She hops up on the bio-bed without acknowledging the Doctor, and sits straight-backed and rigid as he scans her.

 

“There’s no sign of pursuit,” Chakotay continues, ignoring the Doctor’s presence. “Currently, we’re holding at warp 6.8 and we’ll continue on the current course with the Cazenchin Traders’ caravan until we reach Tontrai, which is approximately eleven light years away—it’s the farthest world on the outbound leg of their trade route. Tontrai is five light years from the boarder of the Mija Confederation, which, according to Mistress Holsomi, is much more peaceful than the Fen’Domar Empire. Mistress Holsomi would also like to meet you at your earliest convenience to finalise the trade agreement we made in order to secure her help.”

 

Kathryn raises an eyebrow. “And what agreement might that be?” she demands.

 

“In return for the credit account they transferred to B’Elanna,” he replies, “we’ve agreed to do some mining for them, as well as traded one quarter of our store of Bocerra Pearls and promised to give her the location of the planet we found them on.” He smiles at her surprised expression and shrugs. “It’s not like we’re ever going to be back this way anytime soon to hold onto our claim. Someone will find it sooner or later.”

 

“I suppose you’re right,” she admits, her eyes straying to the other sickbay occupant.

 

“And you’re worth more to this crew than a planet full of pearls, Kathryn,” he continues softly, and she meets his gaze again in surprise, which gives way to a bright red blush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks.

 

“Thank you, Chakotay,” she said hoarsely, a soft smile hovering on her lips. “Why don’t you contact Mistress Holsomi and let her know I can see her in about an hour—”

 

“Three hours,” the Doctor says firmly and she glowers at him. “That’s the earliest I’m willing to let you out of here. You might not have caught the full blast this time, but my readings show that you’ve been shocked repeatedly with a number of lower intensity blasts—”

 

“Doctor?” The query leaves Chakotay’s mouth before he can sensor it; Janeway looks away and fixes her gaze on the floor.

 

 “The residual neural and musculoskeletal trauma is unmistakeable,” the emergency medical hologram replies. “It needs to be treated immediately and you need rest, captain.”

 

“Fine,” Kathryn says shortly. “Tell Mistress Holsomi I will see her in three hours, commander,” she continues and he nods.

 

A soft groan from the still form on the other bio-bed draws her gaze. She jumps off the bed, ignoring the Doctor’s yelp of protest, and hurries to her friend’s side.

 

“Dar—Elizabeth?” she says softly as she strokes the dark brown curls. The woman moans again, struggles feebly. “Shh, it’s all right, Elizabeth, you’re safe now.”

 

_“John!”_ she calls out, voice frantic with pain and longing. “Where’s John? Where is he? Please John ... help me ...” she cries.

 

Kathryn’s face is helpless as she looks down at her friend. “Elizabeth, it’s Kathryn,” she says hoarsely. “I’m sorry, John’s not here, but it’s going to be all right, Elizabeth. I’m here—I’m here for you.”

 

“No ... no ... not again ... not again!” Her head thrashes from side to side; Kathryn looks up in misery.

 

“Doctor,” she croaks. “Do something! Help her!”

 

“Oberoth ... please ... no more,” Elizabeth pleads, “no more ...”

 

“I can’t, captain, not yet,” the EMH replies gently. “A few more minutes—I need the neural acclimation therapy to run its course and bring her brain’s electrotonic activity back to within normal parameters—otherwise she could suffer permanent brain damage. Once that’s done, I’ll remove the alien nano-probes; they’re hyper-stimulating her memory engrams and causing the hallucinations.”

 

“Don’t torture me like this, Oberoth,” the woman cries, begging, and Chakotay’s heart constricts at the utter desolation in her voice. “I know it’s not real ... I know it’s not real ... _she’s_ just another of your tricks. Why do you torture me like this? Why can’t you let me go? Why can’t you just let me _die_?”

 

“It’s real, Elizabeth ... I’m real and I’m right here,” Kathryn says as she takes one thin, pale hand and strokes it. “It will be all right ... I promise it’ll be all right.”

 

“I can’t tell you where the city is,” she babbles over Kathryn’s voice. “I’m compromised ... useless! John and Rodney have hidden it by now—somewhere I know nothing about,” she says proudly—almost triumphantly. “You know that! Now that they have the ZPM, it can stay hidden for the next thousand years and I can’t tell you where it is even if I wanted to. I never knew where they planned to take it in the first place. It’s been moved from Lantea ... the gate address has changed and you’ll never find it now, Oberoth. You’ll never find it ... you’ll never find my beautiful city ... my people ... John will keep my people and my city safe ...”

 

“Yes, he will,” Kathryn assures the woman as she finally slips back into unconsciousness. “I’m sure John will keep your people and your city safe.”

 

Chakotay stands back wondering how the hell you’d move an entire _city_.

 

The Doctor lowers the cortical modulation array over the unconscious woman’s head. “Captain,” he says gently. “We can start the removal of the nano-probes now. Once they’re gone, the erratic brain activity and hallucinations should stop. If you’ll please step back, I need to put up the isolation field now.”

 

To Chakotay’s surprise, Torres is once again at Janeway’s side—almost as if she simply materialised there. She puts her arms around the captain’s shoulders, leads her back to bio-bed and coaxes her to lie down.

 

_When the hell did B’Elanna get so friendly with Kathryn? So intimate…_ he wonders.

 

#

 

When Kathryn awakens, it’s with a start and a wordless cry as the fog of a nightmare dissipates. The lights are dim, but she recognises immediately that she’s still in sickbay. Sitting up, she taps her code into the bio-bed’s computer console; the time is now 1952 hours, which means that she’s been asleep for over five hours.

 

The Doctor’s soft voice comes out of the darkness from the other side of sickbay. “Ah, captain, I see you’re awake.” He bustles over to her, calling for the lights to be brought up to twenty-five percent as he scans her with a medical tricorder. “Well, your electrochemical balance and your neurolytic levels have been restored,” he reports quietly. “You’ll be a little tired for the next day or so, but fighting fit in no time.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor,” she says, feeling more centered—feeling like _the Captain_ for the first time in days. “I had a meeting scheduled this afternoon with the leader of the merchant caravan, Mistress Holsomi—”

 

“I know,” he replies gazing thoughtfully at her. “I took the liberty of asking Commander Chakotay to postpone it for a day or so—you needed to rest and I’d like you to stay here overnight,” he explains, quickly averting her protest. “Your system may not have been as badly damaged as your friend’s, but you still sustained quite a bit of trauma, captain—not to mention, emotionally, you’re not entirely yourself.”

 

Kathryn’s not sure how to respond to that, so she looks down at the floor as she tries to rein in the feeling of acute embarrassment.

 

“How is Elizabeth?” she asks, deliberately moving the conversation away from her emotional control—or lack thereof.

 

“She’s doing well, resting comfortably,” he says, bringing up her vitals on Kathryn’s bed console. “The alien nano-probes have been eliminated and the aberrant activity in her brain is dissipating—her memory engrams are returning to normal. I used some of Species 8472 anti-assimilation proteins to render the nano-probes inert—after which it was a simple matter to flush them from her body. It’s really quite an ingenious and effective therapy, if I do say so myself. The only evidence of the nano-probes is the artificial nanocytes that bridge some damaged areas of her brain, as well as the repairs elsewhere in her body. I believe that the nano-probes were used to repair her brain and the damaged areas of her body after an accident, but for some reason, they were not removed after the job was done. The high-intensity discharge from the weapon must have activated them, and perhaps corrupted their programming. In any case, they’re gone now and she should regain consciousness by tomorrow morning. However, I’d like to keep her here for at least another two days for observation. There’ll be some residual neuromuscular weakness, but that should dissipate within the week. Do you have any idea of who she is?”

 

Kathryn shakes her head as she studies the sleeping woman. “She was reluctant to speak about her past and the only name she gave me while we were being … held … was ‘ _Dar’_. It’s the only thing anyone there ever called her. Only after the rescue—just before she slipped into unconsciousness—did she tell me that her name was Dr. Elizabeth Weir.”

 

The Doctor’s face brightens. “A medical doctor?” he asks excitedly.

 

“I don’t think so,” Kathryn replies thoughtfully. “I think it’s an academic title, but there’s no way to know for sure until we can ask her. However, she gave no indication she’s had any medical training beyond basic first aid, and at one point—when I asked how she knew the Fen’Domar language so well—she said that she used to be a linguist and a diplomat.”

 

#

 

The voices are soft … so terribly far away as she tries to discern what they’re saying; it’s like she’s underwater listening to a conversation happening on the surface.

 

The first man’s voice is somehow familiar to her, but in an almost unwelcome way. She knows that she’s heard those strident tones before, and she knows that she doesn’t much care for them.

 

The male speaking now is one she’s heard say softly … intimately, _“You’re worth more to this crew than a planet full of pearls, Kathryn.”_

 

Kathryn. The woman’s voice is the one she wants to hear more than anything—the one thing she wants to be _real_ more than anything else.

 

_“Kathryn!”_ she gasps out as memory comes flooding back.

 

The familiar hands are on her instantly, holding her shoulders down with gentle pressure. Kathryn’s face floats above her, clear blue eyes caring and anxious.

 

“Elizabeth, you’re awake,” she says, brushing Elizabeth’s hair back from her face.

 

“Kathryn,” Elizabeth cries, unable to stop the tears that well up and spill over. “Is it really you? Oh God, is any of this real?”

 

“It’s real,” Kathryn reassures her, gently squeezing her hand. “I promise you it’s all real. We’re on my ship, _Voyager_.”

 

Elizabeth wants desperately to believe her, but one of the men comes into her field of view and that fragile hope is shattered.

 

She pulls her hand out of Kathryn’s grasp and shrinks away from her as the other woman’s expression dissolves into puzzlement.

 

“Then what is he doing here if this isn’t another trick?” Elizabeth asks in a low, angry voice.

 

“Who? Commander Chakotay?” Kathryn asks in confusion, and for the first time, Elizabeth notices the tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man with the exotic tattoo over his left eye. “He’s my First Officer—my second in command … remember?”

 

“No, him!” she replies, and points to the balding man wearing a uniform similar to Kathryn and her commander, but with blue shoulders instead of red. “What is Richard Woolsey of the IOA doing here?”

 

Kathryn’s confusion doesn’t abate. “I don’t know who this Richard Woolsey is or what IOA stands for, but this is _Voyager’s_ doctor,” she replies. “Remember the Emergency Medical Hologram I mentioned?”

 

As Elizabeth nods warily, Kathryn turns to the man and gestures to the small device attached to his sleeve; the man nods with a resigned expression. She taps the device and removes it. Woolsey’s doppelganger disappears and an involuntary cry escapes from Elizabeth’s throat.

 

“The Doctor cannot exist anywhere there are no holographic emitters or without his mobile emitter,” Kathryn continues as she holds the device up to Elizabeth’s scrutiny. She taps its controls again and the holographic man reappears. “I don’t know why he resembles your Mr. Woolsey, but he’s basically a computer program.”

 

“A very sophisticated computer program, captain, with the knowledge of over five hundred of the Federation’s finest physicians,” the hologram sniffs with an injured air and the tall commander stifles a chuckle, meeting Elizabeth’s gaze with twinkling eyes.

 

“Yes, of course, doctor,” Kathryn murmurs, patting his shoulder in a rather strange attempt to mollify the injured computer program.

 

“As for why I might look like your Mr. Woolsey, Dr. Weir,” he says as he taps something into a computer console and turns the screen so Elizabeth can see it; a picture of an older, grumpier version of the holographic doctor is on it. “That’s simple—if rather coincidental, and not to mention bizarre—I was modeled after my creator, an engineer named Dr. Louis Zimmerman.”

 

“And why would Dr. Zimmerman look like Elizabeth’s Mr. Woolsey, doctor?” Kathryn asks impatiently.

 

The holographic man taps another command into the console and the picture of a familiar bespectacled face comes up on the screen. Richard Woolsey is wearing a black pinstripe suit, with a white shirt and a blue and yellow striped tie, peering at the camera with a pinched, annoyed look Elizabeth knows all too well.

 

“This is Dr. Colin Richard Woolsey,” the holographic doctor says smirking at their disbelieving faces. “He’s an ancestor of Louis Zimmerman’s—and a rather famous one at that. He worked for an international aid organization called Helping Hands: Healers without Nations.”

 

Elizabeth gapes at the picture in shock, trying to wrap her mind around the idea of the annoying, bureaucratic _Woolsey_ as an altruistic doctor-without-boarders type!

 

“My question, Dr. Weir, is how you would know him?” the doctor continued. “Considering Colin Richard Woolsey was born in 1955 and _died_ at the beginning of the Twenty-first Century—August 9, 2017 to be precise.

 

#

 

_“Ouch!”_

 

_“That went well.”_ Harry Kim’s sardonic voice is full of laughter as a force field slams up, surrounding the alien shuttle like a second skin, and blocking Tom Paris’ attempt to touch it.

 

“Damn it!” Paris growls shaking the hand that received the shock from the force field; he looks like he wants to kick the small, cylindrical craft.

 

“It’s actively blocking our scans,” Kim continues, smirking at his friend’s frustration. “We don’t have the time to spend making a concentrated effort to break through, so I guess B’Elanna will just have to rely on the transporter scans for the report and simply wait for the captain’s friend to wake up.”

 

“Guess so,” his friend replies sullenly.

 

Kim laughs and heads towards the shuttle bay doors. “Come on, Tom,” the younger man chuckles. “I don’t want to be late for morning briefing.” Paris shoots him an annoyed look as he follows.

 

In the turbolift, Kim glances over his report, trying to keep from laughing again as his best friend stews.

 

“A hyper ship,” he rants. “A bloody hyper ship practically drops in my lap and I can’t even get a foot in the front door!”

 

“A _putative_ hyper ship.” Kim takes pleasure in correcting him. “The captain says we won’t know anything more until Dr. Weir wakes up, but B’Elanna’s analysis of the transporter scans is certainly suggestive.”

 

Paris gives another frustrated growl and Kim loses his battle against his laughter. “It’s not funny,” Paris says petulantly.

 

“Oh yes it is! You’re acting like a three-year-old! In fact, your three-year-old is probably acting more mature than you are at this moment!”

 

Paris glares at him, but can’t stay angry as his own sense of the ridiculous takes over and he joins his friend’s laughter as the turbolift stops and opens onto the bridge.

 

B’Elanna and Tuvok are already in the briefing room when they enter; the Vulcan security chief raises an elegantly slanted eyebrow at their mirth, which stokes their hilarity even more.

 

“I take it you couldn’t get into the shuttle,” B’Elanna chuckles.

 

“Damn thing slammed up something like a level ten force field when I tried to touch it!” Paris grouses, flexing the fingers as he remembers the shock.

 

“Aw, poor baby,” his wife teases in mock sympathy as she inspects his injured limb. “Want me to kiss it and make it all better?”

 

Tuvok’s dry, sombre tones cut through the levity. “Might I remind you, commander, lieutenant, the briefing room is not the place for public displays of marital bonding or romantic banter?”

 

“Huh?” Paris says in confusion, his attention more on B’Elanna than his surroundings.

 

“He means quit flirting you two,” Kim laughingly translates as Chakotay arrives with a visibly pregnant Annika. The first officer helps his wife get settled in her seat and then turns his attention to the other senior officers.

 

“Alright everyone, settle down; the captain and the doctor will be here shortly with our guest.”

 

“She’s awake?” Kim asks, excitement bubbling over.

 

“Since the captain would hardly bring an unconscious woman to a briefing, it is only logical to assume that she must be awake, lieutenant,” Tuvok intones.

 

Harry Kim glowers, squelching the urge to do something childish, like stick his tongue out at the logical Vulcan. Paris has no such compunction and just manages to get the offending protrusion back in his mouth when the whine of the transporter announces the arrival of the captain, the EMH, and the tall brunette Harry has last seen singing _The Lady of Shallot_ in the window of an alien brothel.

 

He quickly turns his mind from that uncomfortable memory as the doctor settles the obviously weak woman into the seat nearest Janeway on the left, while everyone quickly take their seats.

 

Janeway takes charge immediately. “Let’s get started; first of all, thank you to everyone for getting me … getting _us_ out of there—and not a moment too soon,” she said quietly.

 

“We’re glad to have you home again, captain,” Harry blurts out before he can sensor himself, and blushes hotly as his friends enjoy a laugh at his expense.

 

“Harry is right captain,” Tom says coming to his rescue, “everyone is just glad to have you back safe and sound.”

 

Janeway smiles fondly at them. “And I’m very happy to be home again,” she replies simply, sincerely. “Thank you.” She takes a deep breath and turns to smile at their guest. “As you all know, this is Dr. Elizabeth Weir. Dr. Weir, I’d like you to meet my senior officers. You already know Commander Chakotay and the Doctor; so allow me to introduce Lieutenant Commander Tuvok, _Voyager’s_ chief of security,” she says gesturing to each in turn. “Lieutenant Commander B’Elanna Torres, chief engineer, our chief conn officer, Lieutenant Tom Paris, operations officer, Lieutenant Harry Kim and Annika Hansen, our chief of astrometrics.”

 

There is a chorus of “hellos” and “welcomes”, to which the woman replies, “Hello,” in a low, velvety alto.

 

“Okay, now to the reports,” Janeway continues briskly. “Lieutenant Kim?”

 

Harry looks up at his captain, startled. “Yes captain?”

 

“Your report?”

 

Harry stares at her for a beat, confused as to why she needed his report—the woman is awake now. They can just ask her for her information. However, the captain’s penetrating stare disabuses him of any notion of making that suggestion.

 

“Yes captain,” he replies looking down at the PADD in his hands. “Ah … I’ve located seventeen individuals in our databases over the last four hundred years named Elizabeth Weir … or – or some variation on that name. Only two were doctors of any kind. The closest one to our timeframe, Dr. Elisabetta Leoni Weir, was a neuroscientist at the Vega Colony—born in 2114 died at the age of ninety-four in 2208, while the other was a Canadian mathematician who was born in 2022 and died in 2053 at the age of thirty-one at the start of the Third World War—”

 

The woman at the other side of the table draws a sharp breath. “Dr. Roberta Elizabeth Weir,” Kim continues as she looks down at her hands.

 

“Did any of the individuals you found live during the latter half of the Twentieth Century?” Janeway asks and again Kim’s head whips up in surprise; he can see his own confusion mirrored on his friends’ faces as well, while Tuvok’s eyebrows crawl towards his hairline.

 

“Ah … yes, captain,” he replies scrambling through his data. “There were three that we were able to locate—an Irish lawyer born in 1948, Beth-Ann Weir; ah … an American musician and composer of some note born in 1939, Elizabeth Clara Bonner, who—when she married—went by the name Clara Weir.”

 

“And the third individual named Elizabeth Weir from that era?” Janeway prompts, glancing at her friend’s pale face.

 

“Clara Weir’s daughter, captain—Elizabeth Siobhan Weir,” Harry replies. “Note of her existence was included in her mother’s biographical information from the Smithsonian Music Archives. Born October 14, 1970, she died on July 8, 1976 in a traffic accident with her mother …” Harry’s voice trails off as the woman on his captain’s left, drops her face into her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

 

Janeway rises and kneels by her friend’s chair, drawing her unresisting into her arms as she cries. “Just remember, _she_ isn’t you,” Janeway says quietly and the other woman nods. After a few moments, she pushes out of the captain’s embrace and dries her eyes with shaking fingers.

 

“Captain, are you saying that _this_ Elizabeth Weir was born in the Twentieth Century?” Paris asks, staring at the woman in astonishment.

 

“Yes,” Janeway replies, resuming her seat. “Just not _our_ Twentieth Century, Tom. The Doctor has found evidence that Dr. Weir has not only travelled through time, but may have passed through the fundamental axes of at least two other omnicordial universes to get here.”

 

“That would explain the some of the strange quantum readings from the hull of her craft,” Annika says as B’Elanna murmurs thoughtfully in agreement.

 

“Then while the Elizabeth Siobhan Weir from our past died at the age of five,” Paris muses, “this Elizabeth Siobhan Weir grew up, somehow acquired a _hyper space shuttle_ , crossed a few universes and ends up in our _present_?”

 

“ _This_ Elizabeth Siobhan Weir is sitting right here,” the woman in question says from between clenched teeth, green eyes flashing with annoyance. “And she can speak for herself.”

 

“My apologies, Dr. Weir,” Paris says quickly, embarrassed and contrite. “I meant no disrespect.”

 

“The _p’taq_ just needs to learn how to think _before_ he speaks,” Torres growls scowling at her husband.

 

As quickly as Weir’s annoyance appears, it disappears just as quickly as she turns to Janeway and says in a low, amused voice, “They’re married, aren’t they?”

 

A smile breaks over Janeway’s face like the sun coming out from behind dark clouds. “Yes, they are,” the captain replies. “How did you know?”

 

“Only a wife can get that much love into that much anger,” the other woman chuckles, and Paris goes beet red as B’Elanna’s skin flushes a darker shade.

 

Harry is still snickering at his friends as Janeway takes control of the briefing again. “All kidding aside, Elizabeth, we really do need to know how a late Twentieth—early Twenty-first Century woman comes to be inside an FTL-capable ship … even if she does hail from a few universes over,” the captain says.

 

The humour drains from the other woman’s face, like water flowing out of a vessel. “I don’t know if I can explain,” she says in a low, hard voice. “I don’t even know if any of you—if any of _this_ is even real! This could all be another bloody, _ai ya jwai leh_ trick!”

 

Harry stares at her, shock banishing his humour. _“Dr. Weir!”_

 

Her head snaps up to meet his gaze; her shock mirrors his own, and suddenly a high, almost hysterical, giggle escapes her. She drops her head in her hand again and begins muttering in an entirely incomprehensible language. Harry is sure she’s still swearing.

 

Weir rises and begins to pace; the senior officers look to Janeway in askance, but she nods at them to remain in their seats, before returning her attention to the agitated woman.

 

_“Hakorr kra terak shree!”_ Weir shouts, banging her fists against the viewport as if screaming at the very universe. _“Depet reshwet herew!”_

 

Then suddenly she stops, squares her shoulders and turns from her reflection in the viewport. “My apologies, Lieutenant Kim,” she says quietly, folding her arms across her chest. “Bad habits—when I swear, I tend to do so in other languages.”

 

“You speak Mandarin Chinese, ma’am?” he asks curiously.

 

Her lips pull into a small smile. “Only enough to swear with, Lieutenant,” she replies. “And order alcohol—I can order alcohol in twenty-five languages and counting.”

 

Harry can’t help but laugh, infecting the others—even Janeway, whose lips twitch and eyes sparkle with definite amusement.

 

“You’ve gotta have a skill, Mr. Kim,” Weir says chuckling softly. “In this life, everyone’s gotta have a skill.”

 

“And the other language our translator is making hash of?” Janeway asks the other woman.

 

Weir sobers immediately. “Goa’uld,” she replies. “It’s the language of the Goa’uld—and you don’t know what the _hell_ I’m talking about do you?”

 

“I’m afraid not,” Janeway says quietly. “Who are these _Goa’uld_?”

 

“And I bet you’ve never heard of the Tok’ra, the Jaffa, the Nox, the Unas, the Tollan, the Ori, the Anquietas, or the Asgard, have you?” Weir continues, ignoring Janeway’s question.

 

“No.”

 

“The only Asgard I know about is the place in Norse mythology where Valhalla resides,” Harry says thoughtfully.

 

“See, _that’s_ why I’m having a hard time believing any of this is real—that it’s not another trick by Oberoth,” she grounds out in frustration. “I mean some of these species were major powers in my Milky Way galaxy—even the Ori have had a huge impact in a relatively short period of time—so why aren’t they a part of yours? Could you really have lost all knowledge of them, yet you’d hang onto the record of a five-year-old girl who died in a traffic accident four hundred years ago?”

 

“To what end would we try to trick you, Dr. Weir?” Tuvok asks calmly.

 

“I don’t know—you tell me, Mr. Tuvok,” she retorts. “All I know is that every goddamn time I wake up believing I got away from that sadistic _mikta_ of a Replicator, it’s all been a nanite-induced hallucination and I’m right back in a cell with that _machine’s_ hand shoved inside my brain!”

 

“A machine’s hand shoved _inside_ your brain?” Chakotay’s voice is rather faint.

 

“Replicator?” Annika asks at the same time.

 

Weir resumes her seat and drops her head into her hands again. “Gods,” she whispers, scrubbing her face.

 

“If this is a hallucination, then shouldn’t we know everything you do?” Janeway asks gently.

 

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” she replies; her voice is hollow and tired.

 

Janeway rises and moves towards the room’s replicator. “You look like you can do with something to drink, Elizabeth,” she says. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

 

The other woman starts at the sudden change in topic. “Sure—black if you have it.”

 

“Computer, two cups of coffee—black,” Captain Janeway says holding Weir’s gaze as the beverages materialise in the alcove. As the woman’s eyes widen, she continues with a smile, “And a plate of chocolate chip cookies.”

 

Placing the plate of cookies and one of the cups in front of Weir, she retrieves her own cup and sits down again. “That—Dr. Weir—is what we consider to be a replicator. It’s a machine that will produce food ... clothing ... toys for our children … components to repair our ship—provided the molecular pattern is in its database. It’s the culmination of four hundred years of technology, building on simple protein re-sequencers, and food and industrial synthesisers of the past. Now what do _you_ mean when you speak about a _replicator_ and why would one have his hand in your brain?”

 

As Weir remains silent, sipping her coffee—savouring the taste and inhaling the heady aroma—Chakotay says quietly, “If this were a hallucination, then this Oberoth would already have this information, wouldn’t he, Dr. Weir?”

 

Weir’s voice is hoarse when she speaks again. “Built by a race of ancient humanoid aliens over ten thousand years ago, the Replicators are cybernetic organisms constructed entirely of nanites and were intended to be a weapon against a terrible enemy called the Wraith. For some reason, they didn’t work out quite as planned and the Anquietas—or the Ancients as we came to know them—abandoned the project and tried to wipe them out. But some survived, replicated and built a society based on the Ancients.

 

“Flash-forward ten thousand years, and we Humans are looking for allies and weapons to fight this same enemy that defeated the Ancients and drove them to near extinction. My expedition had accidentally awakened the Wraith and they spread across the _peg_ —the stars like a plague of locusts, feeding on entire worlds. They can literally suck the life out of a Human being, leaving behind only the withered husk of a corpse.”

 

She waves to the streaking warp-star effect in the viewport and laughs bitterly. “We went out there and found bloody space vampires, if you can believe that. Except they’re worse than anything Bram Stoker ever imagined.” She laughs harshly again. “Granted, the first time we went out there, we found a bunch of parasitic megalomaniacal snakes that had taken up lodging in the heads of humans they’d kidnapped from Earth and were masquerading as ancient Egyptian and other old Earth gods. Of course we also found some powerful benevolent beings both corporeal and non-corporeal—some of whom were these Ancients ascended to a higher plane of existence—but most had this policy of non-interference in the lives of _lower_ beings.  Then of course there were the higher beings that thought they were gods and that all lower forms of life should worship them—anyone who wouldn’t, they killed with a plague, or by sterilisation, or by simply destroying entire _planets!_ ”

 

Kim jumps, startled by her sudden shout; the members of the senior staff stare at Weir in disbelief as she continues her rambling narration.

 

“So that brings us up to date on the Goa’uld—the bad parasitic snakes posing as Egyptian gods, for those of you keeping a scorecard; the Tok’ra, _good_ parasitic snakes opposing the Goa’uld; the Asgard—powerful corporeal beings who became our allies and protected us to a point; the Nox—powerful corporeal beings who wanted nothing to do with us _violent_ children; the Ascended ones or the Others—powerful non-corporeal beings who claim to adhere to non-interference, but as corporeal Ancients, left a lot of dangerous toys strewn across the bloody universe; and the Ori—powerful non-corporeal beings—cousins to the Ancients … probably the same species. The Ori felt it was their place to bring the ultimate order to the universe with a religion they called Origin and in which they’re the only gods who should be worshipped. Anyone who resisted, or got in the way, was summarily exterminated.”

 

The coldness in her voice sends chills up Kim’s back.

 

“But back to my favourite subject, the Wraith. In our desperation to find help fighting them, my little band of explorers stumbled across an advanced city on a planet called Asuras, populated by people we thought were corporeal Ancients—except they weren’t. They were Replicators and in the millennia since they’d been abandoned, they’d developed a deep hatred for Ancients and Humans that surpassed even their programmed animosity for the Wraith.

 

“We went looking for allies and only made everything a thousand times worse—made another set of enemies intent on destroying us. By the time we realised what they were—how malevolent they were—we barely escaped, but not before one of them infected me with nanites. Nanites that then proceeded to dig their way into my brain trying to take me over. My CMO, Dr. Carson Beckett, weakened them enough for me to break free of their influence and made them go dormant before they could make a total hash of my mind. But by that time, they’d dug in and hunkered down, and we couldn’t get them out of my head without killing me, or at best, turning me into a drooling idiot.

 

“Flash-forward another couple of months, and I nearly get myself blown to bits. My chief scientist, Dr. Rodney McKay, gets the bright idea that he can save my life by reactivating the nanites—reprogramming them to repair Humpty Dumpty and unscramble the egg that was supposed to be my brain. Presto! It works like a charm and here I am, good as new, except that the tricky buggers aren’t about to vacate their new digs—my body is dependent on them to keep doing things like ... oh thinking, breathing and consequently living.”

 

Her face is cold and her voice bitingly sarcastic as she continues, “Then surprise … surprise … surprise! Rodney can’t figure out how to make them hand over those functions and get out of my head, or at least shut down again. So I wake up to find myself turned into a half-Replicator cyborg and I’m in isolation in my own sickbay, with one of my best friends and colleagues standing on the outside with a kill switch in his hand.”

 

#

 

The silence is overwhelming as _Voyager’s_ crew assimilates her little rant. As it stretches out, Elizabeth begins to feel increasingly uncomfortable.

 

“And now I suppose you’ll want to haul me off to your brig,” she says tiredly.

 

Janeway regards her in surprise. “Whatever for?”

 

“I doubt you want some demented _cyborg_ running around your ship!” Elizabeth replies bitterly.

 

The alien woman, B’Elanna Torres, barks a harsh laugh that startles her. “Been there!”

 

“Done that!” Kathryn chuckles, shocking Elizabeth even more.

 

“Even brought a couple home and domesticated them, didn’t we, Chakotay?” Torres says and they all laugh as Kathryn’s second in command blushes under his golden tan.

 

Suddenly the metal accoutrements on the pregnant blonde’s face stand out in stark relief as she holds Elizabeth’s gaze. Her breath catches in her throat as the young woman lifts her left hand from her swollen belly and places it on the table. Grey metal outlines her fingers, which she flexes to send thin metallic tubules writhing towards Elizabeth like blind worms.

 

A wordless cry escapes her throat and she instinctively shoves her chair violently away from the table, nearly tipping it over in her panic to get away.

 

“Annika, enough,” Kathryn says in a low voice that is unmistakeably an order. The young woman nods and retracts the tubules.

 

“In this reality, we have our own enemies to contend with as well, Elizabeth,” the captain of _Voyager_ continues, her blue eyes holding Elizabeth rooted to the spot. “One of them is the Borg, a group of cybernetic beings intent on turning all other biological beings and their technological accomplishments to their collective purpose; the perfection of the Borg. They captured Annika and her parents when she was six years old, assimilated them into their Collective using nano-probes—or nanites—melding the biological with the technological to turn them into cyborg drones, virtual automatons without independent minds or will—”

 

Elizabeth stares at the young woman in horror, unable to fathom a _six-year-old_ going through something like that.

 

“Oh God,” she whispers, unable to control the tears rolling down her face. _“Oh God, I’m sorry.”_

 

“It’s all right, Dr. Weir,” Annika says quietly. “Six years ago, the captain severed my connection to the Borg. In time, my human physiology, emotions and sense of individuality reasserted themselves. Obviously, I couldn’t be made fully human; my body had been dependent on Borg technology for so long that I couldn’t survive without it, but I am _human_ in all that matters,” she said smiling, resting her technologically enhanced hand on her pregnant belly again.

 

Elizabeth nods wordlessly, unable to say anything. Kathryn moves over to their _replicator_ and orders a container of tissues. When it materialises in the alcove, she hands it to Elizabeth saying gently, “We also have two other former Borg on board; a teenaged boy and a little girl about five years old. However, since they were juveniles when we found them, the process wasn’t complete, so they both have varying levels of technological enhancements. However, their reliance on it isn’t quite as extensive as Annika’s. There had been three other children, twin boys and another little girl, but a few years ago, we found the boys’ people and since the girl, Mezotti, wanted to go with them, all three were resettled among the Wysanti.”

 

Elizabeth turns again to the window, watching the stars streak by as she dries her eyes and wipes her nose. It’s like no hyperspace phenomenon she’s ever witnessed. When she speaks again, she surprises even herself.

 

“I suppose there are worse things than being a nanite-infested, half-Replicator cyborg.”

 

“But you’re not.” The doctor’s voice jerks Elizabeth around like a physical tether and she stares at him, uncomprehending. “You’re not a cyborg, Dr. Weir—at least technically not any more.”

 

She can feel herself literally shaking with the effort it takes to keep from collapsing under the weight of hope bearing down on her. “What the _hell_ do you mean by that? The nanites—”

 

“Have been removed,” the doctor continues. “I didn’t have a chance to explain before you left sickbay, but the nanites had finished healing you—quite some time ago from my scans. I believe that they’ve been dormant since you entered this reality, and the high-intensity energy discharge from the neural disrupter not only reactivated them after a fashion, but also probably damaged their programming. The damage caused them to start randomly accessing the last memory engrams they’d been involved with, causing you to relive those memories of torture. The only things that really might be construed as cyborg are the nanocytes they created to rebuild the damaged areas of your brain, but those are organic, even though they’re clearly artificial in origin.”

 

“Nanocytes?” she croaks, barely grasping at what he’s talking about; Kathryn catches her as her knees begin to buckle and helps her back to her seat.

 

“They’re cells the nanites created to augment, and in some cases, replace your damaged neurons—as well as the cells of other damaged tissues elsewhere in your body.”

 

“And they’re artificial, yet _organic_?” she says in disbelief.

 

Kathryn’s chuckles are soft, her face warm and understanding as she resumes her seat. “I believe by the early Twenty-first Century, you were just starting to get into genetic manipulation.”

 

“That’s right,” Elizabeth replies.

 

“And you could take one organism and introduce genetic elements from another,” she continues. “Or manipulate their genome to fix a defective gene.”

 

Elizabeth nods again, recalling Carson Beckett’s hit and miss success at inoculating members of the expedition with copies of the Ancient Technology Activation gene. “That technology was still in its infancy—it didn’t always work.”

 

“But the point is that you could do it,” Kathryn replies. “That’s similar what the nano-probes—sorry _nanites_ —did. They built new cells very similar to your own neurons; they would have to be to fit into the neural scaffolding underlying human memory engrams, but like most machines, they used the most _efficient_ means possible. They decided to fix whatever they probably saw as inefficient or defective in human brain cells—whatever they didn’t need for those cells … whatever genetic baggage or holdovers from earlier life forms we share our evolutionary heritage with … they eliminated them where they could and still have a living, functioning cell. That’s how the Doctor can tell that they’re artificial, because of what’s missing or has been added to those cells, but they _are_ living, organic cells. Because of it, your memory will probably function better than the human norm, as will your ability to retrieve specific memories, but as far as we can tell, that’s about the extent of the changes, where your brain is concerned, that is.”

 

As Elizabeth struggles to assimilate Kathryn’s incredible explanation, she latches onto the only thing she can make immediate sense of.

 

“Where my brain is concerned—there are other changes?” she asks faintly.

 

“You suffered multiple injuries, therefore the nanites repaired them as well,” her friend replies. “In fact, I think that before they were ... weaponised—so to speak—by your Ancients, in their earliest form, they were probably medical tools. That’s generally the reason why many cultures develop nanites in the first place. And if what I suspect is true, then they’ve probably fixed any old injuries, scars, birth defects that you might have had.”

 

Almost of its own volition, Elizabeth’s hand automatically reaches for her right knee; feeling for the raised scar that she realised had disappeared after she woke up in Fen’Domar custody. It was one of the things that made her afraid that this was just another Replicator-induced fantasy.

 

“During UN negotiations in Afghanistan in the late nineties, I was kidnapped,” she whispers, staring into the past. “The leader of the kidnappers broke my kneecap as an object lesson to my superior. When they didn’t get what they wanted, they killed him—I ... I thought I was next. American Marines got me out in time. When I woke up here, I noticed that the scars were gone and I’d regained my full range of mobility; I assumed the Fen’Domar had repaired me. Many of them—especially among the ruling class—have a cultural _thing_ about scars and visible injuries.”

 

“I see.”

 

Kathryn’s voice is full of gentle understanding and at this moment, for some irrational reason, Elizabeth just wants to run from it.

 

“I think I’d like to rest now,” she says abruptly and cringes inwardly from the startled look that flashes into Kathryn’s blue eyes.

 

After a beat, _Voyager’s_ captain pushes to the fore again, relegating Elizabeth’s friend to the back of her mind. Elizabeth wonders if her own _command facade_ had been as disconcerting to her friends back in Atlantis as Kathryn’s is to her now.

 

“I’m sorry if we’ve tired you,” the captain says. “I’ll have the doctor escort you back—”

 

Elizabeth shuts her eyes, willing back the tears that threaten to overwhelm her barriers. “Please,” she whispers. “I don’t want to go back to sickbay.”

 

“Captain—” the doctor began.

 

Small, slim fingers wrap around Elizabeth’s, warming them as she clings to this lifeline.

 

“Dr. Weir is wearing a cortical monitor,” Elizabeth hears Kathryn say, averting the doctor’s argument. “I think that should be sufficient for now, Doctor. If there’s an emergency, it should alert you and you can transport her directly to sickbay.”

 

“Yes captain.” There is repressed disapproval in the hologram’s voice, and she fights the urge to laugh; he’s a hologram ... a bloody computer program! And he sounds so much like Woolsey.

 

“All right everyone, dismissed,” Kathryn says firmly. Elizabeth tries to tune out the activity around her as _Voyager’s_ officers prepare to leave the briefing room.

 

“What about her shuttlecraft, captain?” Tom Paris asks; Elizabeth hears the eagerness in his voice. “We can’t access it—perhaps Dr. Weir can tell us how?”

 

“You might as well dump it if space is an issue,” she answers before Kathryn can speak. “I stole it from the Asurans when I made my escape. Only the nanites allowed me to interface with its controls. If the Doctor has truly eradicated them, then there’s no way for me to access the shuttle’s systems.”

 

“I see.” Paris’ disappointment is acute. “Thank you, Dr. Weir.”

 

No one says anything more as they leave. She hears the door snick shut and, in the sudden stillness, if it were not for the warm hand in her own, she would believe herself alone. Again, the tears come, and Kathryn pulls her, unresisting, into her embrace. Her head rests against the heavy fabric of Kathryn’s uniform covering her belly, and Elizabeth is sure her tears have soaked clear through the cloth. _Voyager’s_ captain doesn’t say anything, just strokes her hair and back as she cries.

 

An interminable time later, when her tears have ceased to fall, she hears Kathryn say hoarsely, “I’ve assigned you quarters in the forward section on deck three, just down the corridor from my quarters. Would you like to see them now?”

 

Elizabeth pulls away, feeling a little embarrassed as she dries her eyes. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she replies, “That … that would be great.”

 

“All right; stand next to me,” Kathryn says with a gentle smile. As Elizabeth rises and does as she’s bid, Janeway calls out, “Computer, initiate site to site transport of Captain Kathryn Janeway and Dr. Elizabeth Weir to quarters assigned to Dr. Weir on my mark; authorization Janeway alpha-six-four-seven-delta. Mark.”

 

Again, Elizabeth is caught up in that strange tingling sensations of _Voyager’s_ transporter; as her body solidifies in her new quarters, she notices that it’s not nearly as disorienting as ring transport or even the Asgard transport device.

 

They materialise in what is obviously the living room; the colour scheme is a bland mix of grey, tan and other earthy hues. In one corner, she recognises a glass-topped desk with a small, laptop-sized computer console.

 

“... bedroom and bathroom ...” Janeway’s voice trails off and Elizabeth realises that she hasn’t heard a word the other woman has said since entering the room. “Elizabeth, is something wrong?”

 

She shakes her head and offers a wan smile. “No, just woolgathering. Actually, I was just noticing how little disorientation I’ve experienced using your transportation device compared to some others I’ve used in the past.”

 

Kathryn’s lips tugged into a rueful smile. “I’m glad to hear it,” she replies. “And I’d be interested to hear more about those technologies when you’re ready—not to mention my science and engineering teams.”

 

Elizabeth nods as she moves into the bedroom. “I don’t know how much help I can be on that front,” she says, eyeing the queen-sized bed. “I was a diplomat and linguist—I haven’t the first clue when it comes to science.” Laughing softly, she continues, “Frankly, whenever Carson, Rodney or Dr. Zelenka had to make a report, I had to fight to get them to use words that someone with only a tenth grade science education could follow. Eventually, by the time I left Earth, I ended up buying a set of _Idiot’s Guides_ to freshman biology, chemistry and elementary physics.”

 

A realisation slashes through her laughter, catching it in her throat. Kathryn’s smile gives way to puzzlement at her sudden change in mood, and Elizabeth turns away from her friend, making her way back into the living room.

 

“Actually, I’m not going to be much use to you at all,” she sighs, sitting down on the couch and drawing her knees up beneath her chin. The strange, streaking-stars effect is oddly soothing as she gazes out the panoramic window. “With your translator technology, you’d hardly need a linguist, and everything else on this ship is going to be way over my head. About the only place I might be useful is in the kitchen, but with your replicator technology, I’m guessing you don’t have much call for a cook of limited abilities.”

 

“What makes you think that?” Kathryn laughs heartily, startling Elizabeth out of the miasma of depression and self-doubt that had just begun to settle about her like a mind-deadening fog. “I have great need for a cook whose culinary skills surpasses her skill with a bad pun. Right now, in _Voyager’s_ mess hall, I have a self-appointed Bolian cook whose alimentary tract is lined with a cartilaginous tissue that allows him to drink litres of acid and eat some of the most vile—and not to mention, caustic—creations known to sentient, carbon-based beings.”

 

Elizabeth stares at her in shock and confusion as she continues, chuckling softly. “So you can imagine how different his taste buds are compared to that of the average humanoid. In the last three years, the Doctor has managed to impress on him the need for nutrition and un-ulcerated stomachs, which is rather impressive, considering he never managed to get my last cook—a rather hairy, but loveable Talaxian named Neelix, who had a penchant for tear-inducing spices—to come to the same conclusion in the seven years _he_ was aboard _Voyager_.”

 

Elizabeth can’t help but be affected by the ludicrous story and the sparkle in Kathryn’s eyes. Janeway’s laughter is infectious and soon Elizabeth is laughing also.

 

“But why would you need a cook at all?” she gasps out, trying to bring her laughter under control. “Your replicators—”

 

“Require energy to operate,” Kathryn finishes soberly as she holds Elizabeth’s gaze. Suddenly, reality crashes in and things don’t seem quite so funny. “As do all systems on this ship—so that energy must be rationed and has been for the last decade. Everyone gets a set number of replicator rations each month to do with as they please—some use them for food, others for personal items and endure the meals in the mess hall. Me ... I use mine mostly on coffee,” she says chuckling softly. “So, if you truly _want_ to be my cook, Elizabeth, then I’ll welcome you into my kitchen with open arms, no matter how _limited_ your culinary repertoire.”

 

Elizabeth can only nod mutely as Kathryn continues. “Of course, I do have an opening for an experienced diplomat—an ambassador, if you will,” she says holding Elizabeth’s gaze again.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“Ten years ago when we were stranded, we met two wonderful people; an Ocampan named Kes—a beautiful fairy sprite of a girl—and my outrageous, but affable roly-poly Talaxian cook, Neelix, who was completely besotted with Kes.”

 

Kathryn chuckles again, but her eyes sparkle with unshed tears. “I swear, if Kes had thought it a good idea to steer his little ship into a star, Neelix would have said “yes dear” and done exactly that. Anyway, she wanted to see the galaxy before her life was over and he wanted whatever she wanted.” At Elizabeth’s obvious confusion, she explains with a shrug. “The Ocampa are the mayflies of the humanoid world—most only live nine standard years from birth to death.”

 

_“Nine years?”_ Elizabeth’s voice is filled with dismay and horror.

 

“Nine years,” Kathryn repeats with a sad smile. “She was just about a year old when we first met and she wanted to explore the universe, so she began working in sickbay with the Doctor, while Neelix acted as our guide, cook, and ultimately ambassador. Eventually, Kes left us four years into our journey to explore her burgeoning mental abilities—I believe that she underwent a type of ascension similar to the Ancients you spoke about, but for four years, she was our nurse and our confidant in a lot of ways. Sometimes I think that she was born wise and simply added to that wisdom in those short years she was given. Neelix though, he acted first as our native guide—since he’d been a trader and scavenger in his home territory—then once we passed out of that area of space he’d had experience with, it seemed natural for him to become _Voyager’s_ ambassador. I found that he had a knack for making contacts, figuring out people and their cultures fairly quickly, even if he’d never encountered them before.

 

“And I’m in need of someone like that again,” Kathryn says holding Elizabeth’s gaze. “In the three years since Neelix has been gone, Chakotay and Tom—and on occasion, I—have picked up the slack, but none of us are trained diplomats or negotiators. Oh, Chakotay and I both took the required courses in Command School, and Tom’s a Starfleet brat. He also has a most annoying obsession with old Earth history and cultures—your era actually, so watch for him bothering the hell out of you,” she chuckles, “but he’s also well versed in certain alien cultures; by now, Tom probably knows more about Klingon culture than B’Elanna does. But adding an experienced diplomat to the senior staff, especially in first contact situations—which covers ninety-nine percent of the contacts we make out here—is not an opportunity I want to pass up, unless … you really had your heart set on becoming our cook.”

 

Elizabeth laughs, but feels fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. There’s a tightness in her chest she hadn’t noticed before, but she realises it’s been loosening as Kathryn speaks, offering her a chance to do what she loves again; a chance to serve and help people again. A chance to be herself again—a chance to be her own _woman_ in her own skin again.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers through her tears. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Kathryn replies, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. “And don’t even think about letting your linguistic skills get rusty—translators are all well and good, but like you saw with the _Goa’uld_ language, it doesn’t do nearly so well when it has no context for a language. A translator doesn’t have the intuition that a Human linguist would be able to draw on, and first contacts can and do go horribly wrong because of misunderstandings in simple things like context, abstractions or proper tonality in the pronunciation of a word.”

 

Elizabeth nods and spends the next few minutes trying to quickly process the other woman’s explanations.

 

“Now, how about we get you settled,” Kathryn continues, breaking the comfortable silence between them. “We can attend to some practicalities like replicating some clothing, various personal sundries … any equipment or books you think you might need. Then afterwards, we can have a light lunch … I can show you how to access our computer sys—”

 

“ _War and Peace_!” Elizabeth blurts out breathlessly before she can stop herself. “I like a copy of _War and Peace_ by Tolstoy, if—if you have … have …” It suddenly occurs to her that the Tolstoy of this universe may never have written that novel … that Tolstoy may not have existed here, or may have been a lawyer or an accountant.

 

Kathryn stares at her, first in confusion, and then with sudden comprehension. She smiles. “Don’t worry, we have Tolstoy’s _War and Peace_ in our database—you can find the contents of most of Earth’s libraries, and libraries of other Federation worlds, in the database. You just have to ask the computer to download it to a PADD or replicate it if you want the physical book—you can even specify the type of cover and bindings you’d like or the language.”

 

“I read it years ago in the original Russian,” Elizabeth says thoughtfully. “But I’d like an English translation—John, my expedition’s military commander …” Her voice cracks, but she forges ahead, feeling the need to explain to this woman. “We were only allowed a limited number of personal items on ah … the expedition.” She laughs softly through tears that fall unbidden. “We left knowing that it might be a one-way trip—that we might never see Earth again—so, John figured that since he’d have only one book for an indefinite period, it might as well be a long one. In the three years we were in … that I was there, he only managed to get about a quarter of it read. I know it’s silly, but I remember dreaming of him out there in the cold dark … of his voice as he read _War and Peace_ to me—in Russian no less—but he didn’t know Russian, so it was only in my head …”

 

“It’s not silly,” Kathryn assures her, blue eyes filled with compassion and understanding as she cups Elizabeth’s cheek. “It’s not silly at all.”

 

After a few moments, Kathryn removes her hand and slips fluidly into _“Captain”_ mode again.

 

“There is one last thing we should discuss,” she says quietly. “As I’ve indicated before, when _Voyager_ was flung into the delta quadrant, we were short-crewed. One professional we don’t have is a psychological counsellor.”

 

A soft sob escapes Elizabeth; it catches her by surprise almost as much as Kathryn’s words do. She curls her body away from the other woman, as if that can protect her from the sudden assault of memories. Then Kathryn’s hand is rubbing her back, soothing Elizabeth’s turbulent thoughts as she concentrates the gentle spirals … round and round …

 

“There are a number of crewmembers that people tend to turn to when they need help,” her friend continues—soft voice husky with emotion.

 

“Who—who do you talk to?”

 

“I’m lucky in a way,” Kathryn replies. “Tuvok is an old friend; he’s very Vulcan, logical and unemotional, so people think that he can’t offer emotional support. But he has a wonderful way of cutting straight to the heart of a matter, which I often need when I’m all tangled up and can’t see my way clear. Then there’s Chakotay—he’s a good listener and again, a good friend—”

 

“No men,” she croaks, swallowing the pain clawing at her chest.

 

Kathryn’s hand stops its motion for an instant; Elizabeth feels her palpable surprise and sudden flood of guilt.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says thickly. “That was thoughtless and insensitive of me.”

 

Elizabeth turns into her and Kathryn’s arms automatically fold her into a tight embrace. Laying her head on Kathryn’s shoulder, she rasps out, “No, please don’t apologise. They’re your friends, and you know and trust them. That’s _good_ thing, Kathryn; that’s a very good thing. But I just can’t …”

 

Her tears burst their dam at last as soft lips gently brush across her forehead.

 

“I understand,” Kathryn whispers hoarsely. “I understand.” After a few moments, she continues. “B’Elanna is the opposite of Tuvok, very volatile and forthright, but in the last few years, she’s become more than just my chief engineer and subordinate. She is a good person to bounce ideas off and she’s learned to tell me when she thinks I’m being an idiot.”

 

Elizabeth smiles a little at the description of the engineer; she can totally see that gelling with what she’s seen of the alien woman so far.

 

“There’s also Lieutenant Samantha Wildman; she’s one of my science officers. She’s about your age and a very sympathetic listener. Then there’s Lieutenant Moira Jarvis—again another sympathetic listener and a bit of a mother hen. She’s a security officer—a few years older than me—and after Chakotay, she’s the person a lot of my younger crew feel most comfortable speaking to … especially those who don’t serve on the bridge or in engineering.”

 

“Jarvis,” Elizabeth husks—closing her eyes as she clings more tightly to Kathryn.

 

“All right. Would you like me to contact her for you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Another gentle kiss brushes across her forehead.

 

“She won’t report to me, but she will report to the Doctor and they’ll discuss and coordinate any treatment they feel is necessary with you,” Kathryn continues. “Of course, if there’s anything that impacts your health and safety, they will ultimately have to report it to me, but only in the most general terms.”

 

Elizabeth nods. “I know. Dr. Heightmeyer, my expedition psychologist and Dr. Beckett, our CMO, had a similar system regarding their patients.”

 

“Then I’ll speak to Moira and have her contact you in a couple of hours.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

#

 


	3. Part 3

**Be My Homeward Dove**

 

Part 3

 

Elizabeth struggles feebly against the arms that hold her pinned face down to the hard surface.  She doesn’t know where she is, or how she came to be there—all she knows is that _thing_ has forced its way into her to consciousness—exploding the cold, placid oblivion in which she’d been floating. 

 

“No! No!  Please no ...” she croaks desperately.

 

She curses her own weakness as she fights ... the dull ache that has made her limbs heavy and painfully slow.  She remembers the first time and the first client ... and she remembers promising herself that it would never happen again—that she would kill herself first. But here she is staring into the mouth of hell ... as she has all those other times.

 

Suddenly, the heavy body lying on top of her shifts and the arms miraculously free her. She tries pitifully to crawl away, but finds that her muscles don’t have the strength to support her. All she can do is lie there trembling in fear, body wracked by painful sobs as she waits for the next assault to begin.

 

The hands return again, as she knew they would, and she stiffens. The attack, when it comes, is brutal and swift in its invasion. 

 

Elizabeth’s hoarse sobs give way to shrill, keening cries as she is cast adrift on an ocean of pain with nothing to cling to but her agony and her will to survive.

 

She wakes up screaming.

 

At least she thinks she screamed as miasma of the nightmare still swirls around her in her mind, filling her with wordless dread. She lays there for an interminable amount of time, forcing her breathing under control ... afraid to even move. Gradually, she realises that she’s shivering violently in her sweat-soaked pyjamas, and is momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. Eventually, as her breathing becomes steadier and her courage returns, she swings her legs out of bed and drops her head into her hands. 

 

Memory and reason reassert themselves. _The Federation Starship_ Voyager _… four hundred years in the future; not my future, mind you, but somebody else’s_. It’s almost as unbelievable as being kidnapped by a bunch of robots with Daddy issues. 

 

_Damn you Buck Rogers!_ she thinks irrelevantly and barks a bitter laugh. “Lights!” she calls and the computer obeys her, flooding the bedroom with soft, white light.

 

_“It will be a rough couple of days,”_ Moira Jarvis had said when they’d met that afternoon in the tall redhead’s quarters; the woman was a master of understatement. _“It will take time to adjust to being here; I hope you’ll let me know if it becomes too much to cope with.”_

 

Elizabeth had murmured some sounds signalling agreement, but frankly, her mind had been anywhere else but that room, and at one point she’d started conjugating Ancient verbs in her head. After twenty minutes, Jarvis had allowed her to make her escape, but not before setting up three months of counselling sessions— _”every third day and we’ll re-evaluate that schedule as things progress.”_

 

Looking around her bedroom, Elizabeth gathers up the strength to move, and takes off her damp pyjamas before pulling on a white t-shirt and pair of comfortable slacks from the clothing Kathryn has replicated for her. They’re part of her initial allotment; for anything more, she’ll have to use some of the ninety replicator credits she’s been given for the month.

 

“Computer, what is the time?” she asks pulling on a pair of flats.

 

“The time is 0234 hours.”

 

“Great,” she says sardonically as she attaches her communicator to her shirt and walks into the living room.  “What the hell does a person do on a starship at 2:30 in the morning, four hundred years in the future?”

 

“Unable to process query,” the computer replies dispassionately.  “Please restate the question.”

 

Elizabeth chuckles at the ridiculousness of it; and then laughs some more at the thought of herself laughing at the computer. 

 

“I guess I’ll take my laughs any way I can,” she mutters wryly, still trying to shake off the remnants of her nightmare.  “Never mind, computer.”

 

She stands in the middle of the room, lost for a moment, then turns and walks out. As the door shuts behind her, she stares down the deserted corridor for a few moments—even if there is somewhere to go, she doesn’t know where it is.  Squaring her shoulders, she walks purposefully down the corridor. Ahead, a young man leaves a small featureless elevator, clearly intent on the handheld computer they all seem to carry. As he disappears down a side corridor, Elizabeth heads for the vacant elevator.

 

_Okay, one decision made_ , she thinks as the door opens and she steps inside.  She looks at the featureless panel in dismay—there are no indications of controls that she can see. Perhaps it’s a touch screen?

 

“Destination?” the computer prompts before she can do anything—there’s nothing like a user-friendly computer at 2:30 in the morning.

 

“Mess hall,” she calls, blurting out the first thing that pops into her head.  There’s no discernable sense of movement, but it seems like only a moment later when the doors open, prompting her to step out.

 

“Now, which way,” she muses looking up and down the corridor. She’s definitely going to have to explore this ship and learn where everything is as soon as possible if she’s going to stay.  Ever helpful, the computer lights up the dark panels recessed into the walls with a red light that travels along them, obviously pointing out the direction in which she should go.

 

Following the light, she comes to a pair of large double doors. Entering the cavernous room, she finds it almost completely dark except for light filtering through the one opened viewport from the looming disc of the planet they are currently orbiting. The lights come on automatically as she moves deeper into the room. In its way, it has a homier feel than the mess hall in Atlantis.

 

She plops herself down on a couch beneath the window and studies the green jewel of a planet for a long moment. _Voyager_ has stopped there because the planet is rich in some minerals Kathryn needs for her engines to function. According to their Cazenchin allies, for whom they will also mine the ores, the system is in neutral space, but it’s still a mere 3.5 light years from Fen’Domar territory.

 

_It’s about as exciting as watching grass grow_ , she muses, looking away from the planet and the magnificent nebula in which it’s hidden.  Three years in the Pegasus Galaxy has jaded her to such sights.

 

_If only I had something to do; read, write … watch television even_ , she thinks as she notices the blank viewscreen on the wall across from her. Back home, before Atlantis, sitting and watching some mindless comedy or action flick had always been her remedy for her wee-hours-in-the-morning screaming _heebee-jeebees_ when not even the most boring negotiation report could conquer her insomnia. She smiles to herself as she considers the screen; hell, the computer did practically everything around here, why not TV as well?

 

“Computer, can the wall screen in front of me show television programs?” she asks.

 

“Affirmative.”

 

She grins broadly as she stands and goes over to the screen.  “Computer, display a list of the television programs in your memory.”

 

“Please specify genre and year,” it prompts.

 

“Comedy—” she began. “No wait!  Are there any movies in your database, computer?” she asks excitedly.

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“Collate titles of science fiction and action movies from the 1960’s to the year 2006,” she orders. The choices for each decade flashes onto the screen and she touches the icon for 1970-1979, which brings up the choice of years in the decade.  She stares at it in frustration—she isn’t sure of the year the movie was made. “Do you have the movie _Star Wars_ in your database?”

           

“Affirmative. There are twelve selections with “Star Wars” in the title. Please specify.”

 

Elizabeth quickly studies the choices, chooses the original trilogy of movies and queues them up to play in order.

 

“Please play—no hold selections for further instructions,” she says musingly as she moves over to the replicator.  She hasn’t used any of the replicator credits Janeway has given her. 

 

Kathryn has said that her crew used them for special treats generally and took their meals in the mess hall.  “A large bowl of popcorn and a large carbonated cola beverage, please,” she orders, doubting that the brand name “Coke” would have any meaning here, and gives an embarrassing squeal of delight as her choices appear in the alcove. 

 

She picks them up and takes them back to her seat.  She looks at them for a moment and goes back to the replicator.

 

“A small bowl of chocolate covered almonds, please,” she says laughing at her politeness to the piece of machinery, but she might as well get going on training herself back into automatic courtesy, even if it is simply to a machine. She retrieves the inviting bowl of candy and hurries back—arranging an armchair and low table for optimal viewing—and then curling up in the chair with the bowl of popcorn.

 

“Computer, play first movie in selection and dim the lights to ten percent.”

 

As the computer complies, she gives herself over to the fantasy of the characters on the screen, munching on the popcorn with a sense excitement she is sure she’s never felt before watching television.

 

#

 

“You’re impatient this morning,” Tom laughs, shifting Miral in his arms as Tal Celes waddles along behind him towards the mess hall as fast as her legs can propel her little round bulk.

 

“I’m starving, Tom,” she complains.  “This kid is going to be a hell of an eater if she ever gets here.” 

 

Tom enters the mess hall and stops short, forcing Celes to careen around him. There is strange music and the impression of voices coming from the far side of the mess, near the bulkhead in front of the last viewport window. 

 

“Computer, illumination level 25 percent,” he orders quietly, and then moves forward through the dimly lit room curiously. Tom smiles as he sees Elizabeth curled up in a chair sound asleep with her arms wrapped around a large bowl of popcorn.

 

The woman’s face is peaceful like a child’s as she sleeps, and there’s a large, half-finished drink on the table with a bowl of chocolates.  His hand reaches for one automatically and pops it in his mouth—chocolate covered almonds. He sighs, savouring the lovely candy. On the viewscreen, a handsome, dark-haired man with a rakish smile, pilots what is obviously supposed to be a starship against odd-looking, fighters equipped with what looks like old-fashioned solar panels for wings.

 

“Computer, halt playback,” he orders quietly.

 

“Tom?” Celes whispers in concern.

 

“Homesickness,” Tom replies, understanding all too well as he gently tries to remove the precariously perched bowl of popcorn from the woman’s embrace. Weir’s eyes fly open in alarm and she jumps, narrowly missing upsetting the popcorn and Tom.

 

“Lieutenant Paris, I’m sorry,” she apologises quickly.  “I couldn’t sleep—I . . .”

 

“No need to apologise, Dr. Weir,” he replies with a soft chuckle as Celes sits down next to her. “This is my friend Tal Celes; she came to raid the Mommy Pantry before the breakfast rush, but I think she’d much rather devour your popcorn and chocolate covered almonds.” He laughs as the young pregnant woman stops guiltily in the middle of cramming a handful of the candy into her mouth.

 

“By all means, Ms Celes; help yourself,” Weir laughs as Tom puts Miral on the floor. “I’ve had about all I can take.”

 

Celes glares at Tom’s impudent grin for a moment, then huffs as she continues to munch the chocolates.

 

Paris chuckles as he makes his way over to the replicator.  “Well if you’re going to insist on eating such sweet and unhealthy things this early in the morning, the least you can do is have a glass of milk! At least then Harry won’t kill me for my bad influence on you and baby Kim.”

 

“Yes, Mother.”

 

Celes rolls her eyes and sighs with exaggerated patience. Weir chuckles at their banter and lifts Miral onto her lap. 

 

“Miral has a habit of waking at four or five in the morning, and since I’m usually ready to eat a wild _branok_ by then, we generally come down here for a snack so that Tom and B’Elanna can get a little extra sleep,” the young woman explains as Miral snuggles deeper into Elizabeth’s lap. 

 

To Tom’s surprise, Miral’s usual early morning crankiness is not in evidence as she concentrates on exploring the contours of Elizabeth’s face.

 

“Lisbeth,” his daughter says happily as she strokes the woman’s thin, angular face.

 

“You remembered!” Weir laughs, meeting Tom’s gaze in surprised pleasure.  “She remembers me.”

 

“Of course she remembers you,” Tom replies, handing a laughing Celes her milk and Weir a bowl of fruit for Miral.  “She met you last night at dinner—she wouldn’t forget you so soon.”

 

“I guess not,” the woman replies in bemusement as she settles Miral more comfortably.

 

“Papa!” Miral squeals at Tom as he reaches in to tickle her chin.  “Auntie Tal,” she said pointing at Celes.  “Auntie Lisbeth,” she finishes triumphantly as she touches Elizabeth’s chest.

 

“Thank you, Miss Miral, for the introductions,” Weir says softly as she begins to feed his little girl cubes of fruit.

 

Tom marvels at the way Miral makes no fuss accepting food from this relative stranger. “You certainly have a way with kids,” he says in admiration.

 

“Actually, I’ve never had much contact with children,” she replies ruefully, blushing a little at his praise. “My nieces and nephews knew me as that ghastly auntie who brought them boring books from all over the world—sometimes in languages they couldn’t even read—instead of popular toys and exciting video games. Let’s just say my Christmas and birthday gifts weren’t the most sought-after presents for anyone under the age of twenty-one in my family.”

 

Holding her gaze, Tom murmurs gently, “I’m sure no one thought you were ghastly.”

 

Weir stares back in surprise and then gives a little shrug. “I guess I never saw the merit in giving them tons of plastic and _things_ that everyone else was buying for them,” she says after a moment. “I mean, really, how many Baby Oopsie-Daisy dolls can one little girl possibly need? Travelling around the world for the UN, I saw so many children who thought themselves the richest kids imaginable when they received the gift of a new book—hell a single old book with half the pages torn out was considered priceless. No matter its state, they cherished it because books meant knowledge.” She’s silent again for a moment as she continues feeding Miral.

 

“Anyway,” she says with another shrug. “You can imagine how popular I was one Christmas when I adopted a number of orphans in the name of each niece and nephew, and asked them to send their allowances each month to help feed and school the children.” She chuckles; it has a distinctly bitter undertone. “By the way one of my brothers and his wife acted, you would have thought I’d suggested that their precious offspring go play in traffic on the freeway. But most of them did it for a couple of months and then quietly let it lapse. Although, my other brother’s son Kyle, the one I least expected to—he was one of the most self-centred teenagers I’ve ever met—did keep it up for about five years until the little Kenyan boy I’d paired him with graduated from grammar school. I suppose I should be grateful for that.”

 

“I think you should be very grateful for that,” Celes says quietly, gazing at a startled Elizabeth Weir with shining eyes. “I know I was always grateful for each book I got—those books led me all the way to Starfleet Academy, to this ship, to Harry ... my friends ... this little one ...”

 

She smoothes her hand over her pregnant belly. “Maybe it wasn’t your niece or nephew, Dr. Weir, but I’d like to think that somewhere, someone like you taught a child to think about another child far away, whose world had been devastated by decades of slavery and oppression and war; a child who needed a new book or a blanket or a pair of shoes.”

 

#

 

A jumble of thoughts and emotions courses through Elizabeth, and she stares at the young woman in shock. Although Tal Celes is smiling shyly, there’s a ghost of something else in her eyes that tells Elizabeth this young woman has experienced the privations and horrors of war—and at a time when she was entirely too young for such experiences.

 

_This sounds nothing like the—frankly utopia-like—Federation that Kathryn has described_ , she thinks, but then she should know better; every society has its dark underbelly, so why not the _United Federation of Planets_.

 

 Before she can say anything, a chorus of voices enter the mess hall, smashing the early-morning quiet with a steady stream of people.

 

“Alpha shift and some of the mining teams grabbing breakfast,” Paris explains. “There’ll be a smaller crowd in about an hour, after shift-change when the gamma shift gets off. But coming off gamma, a lot of people would rather head straight to bed or unwind on the holodeck.”

 

“Holodeck?” Elizabeth probes curiously.

 

“You don’t know what a holodeck is?” he asks incredulously and she nods her head in bemusement. “You mean the captain hasn’t explained about the holodecks?”

 

“No.”

 

Paris stares at her in disbelief for a beat longer. “Typical Janeway,” he mutters.

 

“What’s typical of the captain, Tom?” Harry Kim asks joining them. “Oh, hi Dr. Weir,” he greets her, before dropping two breakfast trays on the table and leaning in to kiss Celes.

 

“Hello, Lieutenant Kim,” Elizabeth responds smiling at the couple.

 

Kim tenderly caresses the young woman’s belly; the obvious love and pride shines in his eyes.

 

“The captain hasn’t told Dr. Weir about the _holodecks_ yet,” Paris says, outrage shading his voice.

 

“Um ... she hasn’t?” Kim replies distractedly before tearing his gaze away from Celes. “Well I suppose she wants Dr. Weir to get acclimated to _Voyager_ first—”

 

“How can the captain expect her to get acclimated to _Voyager_ without knowing about the holodecks?”

 

The young man hands Celes one of the trays, then settles on the arm of her chair and digs into his own breakfast. “Not everyone is as into their recreational activities as you are, Tom,” he comments in a reasonable tone, frowning at the chartreuse-coloured food on his fork before shrugging and taking a bite.

 

“And it looks like I’ll be old and grey before anyone explains,” Elizabeth quips, looking from one young man to the other.

 

Celes comes to her rescue, chuckling as she does so. “Holodecks are large holographic simulation rooms, Dr. Weir. You can program and run different scenarios in them from designing and testing a new shuttle, like our _Delta Flyers_ , to purely recreational programs, like _Suun’tor Pagh_ —the _Field of Souls_ —a memorial park in my home province on Bajor. I like to go for long walks there—it’s very peaceful,” she explains blushing shyly. “Of course _some people_ use it for more entirely frivolous pursuits, _Captain Proton_ ,” she says pointedly, raising one eyebrow at Paris.

 

“Frivolous? I’ll have you know Captain Proton was never frivolous,” Paris bristles indignantly. “It was valid cultural tool for looking at how pre-space Humans might have viewed space travel and the future.”

 

“Cultural tool,” Kim snorts. “There’s a new one—why don’t we ask someone who was there?” he chuckles, turning his twinkling gaze towards Elizabeth as Paris definitely begins to pout at the good-natured ribbing. “Tell me, Dr. Weir, did you ever dream of flying around with your jet pack, brandishing a ray gun as you tried to save the Earth from the evil Dr. Chaotica, who was hell-bent on taking over the galaxy? And what was the cultural significance of jet packs, ray guns and fiendishly evil, megalomaniacal scientists anyway?”

 

Elizabeth can’t help but laugh. “Captain Proton and Dr. Chaotica?” she gasps and memories of the old _Flash Gordon_ movie reruns, which her older brothers used to watch, rise up in her mind. Paris reddens and looks thoroughly embarrassed; she feels a sudden wave of sympathy for him.

 

“Well, Mr. Kim, although I didn’t dream of it, my brothers certainly did. However, I must admit I’ve never used a jet pack—that would have been very cool—but I did once brandish a zat gun, and I used to make a habit of threatening evil Goa’uld System Lords. Does that count?” she asks sweetly as the young man nearly chokes on his coffee, turning away to cough into his napkin. “They were usually hell-bent on taking over the galaxy—oh, and one of my best friends was a megalomaniacal scientist, and although Rodney wasn’t evil, he could be _fiendishly_ clever.”

 

Celes bursts into gales of laughter and Paris smirks at his friend before turning his attention back to Elizabeth. “What are zat guns?” he asks eagerly.

 

“Alien ray guns—Goa’uld,” she answers. “It’s the short form of _zat’nik’tel_. One shot stuns—very painful; two shots kill. And three shots in quick succession completely vaporises the body,” she finishes soberly.

 

“Sounds like our phasers—phased energy rectification weapons,” Paris says thoughtfully. “They’re usually kept on their stun settings, but we can take them off stun to kill and on a high enough setting, they can vaporise a body. We also use them large-scale as our ship-to-ship energy armaments.” After a moment, he smiles again. “Why don’t I get us some breakfast and then we’ll show you the wonders of the holodeck?”

 

“That sounds great, Lieutenant Paris.”

 

“Tom,” he says firmly.

 

“Tom,” she replies.

 

#

 

Tal Celes chuckles to herself as Elizabeth whips around to see the corridor of the ship through the open doors, while they stand in the damp night air of Marseilles. She gives a loud gasp as the doors closed and disappeared, becoming part of a row of houses.

 

“What is this?” the Twentieth-Century woman asks, eyes shining.

 

“It’s a holodeck,” Wildman answers in amusement as she joins the group, “a room where we can project interactive holographic environments.”

 

“This is tremendous,” she breathes, “the ultimate VR. Rodney would kill for this.”

 

“VR?” Tom asks in confusion.

 

“Virtual reality,” she laughs, bending to touch the cobblestones beneath her feet. “I can’t believe this is all projections—electronic smoke and mirrors.  Everything feels so real, smells so real—I can actually taste the salt mist in the air, feel the breeze.  Even Ancient holographic technology wasn’t _this_ good. This is incredible—how can holograms seem so completely real?”

 

“It’s an off-shoot of our transporter technology,” Wildman replies.  “Unless something’s replicated, all this holomatter can’t exist outside the holodeck unless external holoemitters are set up in designated areas.”

 

“Come on,” Paris says invitingly, holding the door of one of the buildings open. “Let us introduce you to Sandrine’s—” Music floats out as they all enter the bustling bar.  Sandrine is the only hologram Tal can find in attendance as a number of off-duty crew wait expectantly for Dr. Weir to enter; Tom had asked Harry to send a flash notice of the holodeck _‘meet and greet’_ to all off-duty personnel before they’d left the mess hall.

 

Paris introduces the dark-haired woman to Sandrine and the crew, and Tal meets Harry’s twinkling eyes as he enters a few minutes later.

 

“How did it go?” he asks, holding her chair out as she sits down.

 

“She finds it the ultimate in virtual reality,” Tal answers as they watch Paris take the group over to the pool table.

 

“She’s adapted so easily to this whole situation—accepted it all so quickly,” he says admiringly.

 

“I know,” Tal replies studying the woman in question as she expertly handles the pool cue.

 

“Captain,” Paris calls as Janeway enters the bar.  “I do believe that we have a new pool shark at Sandrine’s, ready to challenge your crown.”

 

“You mean Captain Janeway’s your resident shark?” Elizabeth asks in surprise. “Wow!  Would you like to have a game, captain?”

 

“Not right now, Dr. Weir,” Kathryn replies smiling.  “A raincheck? I can’t stay—I just came to borrow Lieutenant Wildman for a short while.”

 

“Sure, it’s a date,” the other woman says returning her smile. As Wildman joins Janeway, Elizabeth turns to Paris.  “Tom, is there anything good on that jukebox?”

 

“Depends on what you mean by good,” he quips as she pores over the newest addition to the _Sandrine’s_ program.

 

Elizabeth laughs. “Anything post-1980 that isn’t too heavy metal?”

 

“You can simply ask the computer for what you want if it isn’t on the jukebox,” Paris answers.

 

“Heavy metal?” Seven asks curiously.

 

Elizabeth chuckles as she continues to flip through the choices.  “Music to blow your eardrums out by—I’ve got to be in a specific mood for that, but right now I feel like dancing.  Oh yeah, hello Sweet Prince.  Computer, compile selection of songs starting with Prince’s 1999 from the album 1999, followed by Let’s Go Crazy and When Doves Cry from the Purple Rain album.  Afterwards, follow those songs with random selections of dance music from 1982 to 2004.”

 

“Compilation complete, play back when ready,” the computer informed her after a moment.

 

“Well, don’t tell anyone, but His Royal Purpleness has always been my favourite,” Elizabeth says laughing as she spins around in the middle of the floor.  “Computer, play back compilation—loud.”

 

_I was dreaming when wrote this_

_Forgive me if it goes astray,_

_But when I woke up this morning_

_Could have sworn it was judgement day..._

 

#

 

Kathryn watches Elizabeth begin to dance as the music pulses to crashes of drums and cymbals and other instruments she can’t quite identify.  After a few minutes, Paris, Kim, Celes, Jenny Delaney and a few of the more adventurous types from the crew join in.

 

“They seem to be having a good time,” Wildman shouts over a chorus of _“Two thousand zero, zero, party over—oops out of time/ So tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1999.”_

 

“They certainly do,” Kathryn shouts back; she regrets that she can’t stay, but is glad that the other woman is cutting loose, having fun and making friends. “Sorry to take you away from your leisure time, Samantha,” she says as they exit the holodeck. “But there are couple of issues with the mining that the Cazenchin have brought up—and I’d rather not disturb B’Elanna while she’s on the planet. I get the feeling that the Cazenchin are just trying to squeeze as much out of this deal as possible.”

 

Samantha sighs audibly and takes the PADD from Kathryn as they walk down the corridor. “I know what you mean,” she says in resignation. “Two days ago their complaint was that the _quality_ of coronite wasn’t _high_ enough.” Her tones are dry and sarcastic as she rolls her eyes expressively. “Compared with the _drek_ they’ve been destroying their generators with, captain, coronite that’s ninety-three percent pure is gold standard—any purer and they’re likely to ignite their power systems. We only take the last steps with ours because we spend comparatively more time at ultra-high warp factors than they do.”

 

“I know what a pain it is,” Kathryn replies. “But I’d rather not have an incident over this if we can help it, and part of that is dispelling the perception that we’re giving them lesser grade material.”

 

“That’s probably because they’ve seen us put our batches through the warp resonance field—”

 

“To align the coronite crystals so that they remain balanced and don’t interfere with the warp field at high speeds above warp 9.75,” Kathryn says thoughtfully. “Would it be too much trouble to put their batches through the resonance process without going through the extra purification steps? It’s neither here nor there in regards to their warp field geometry, since they rarely even go above warp 9, but according to my calculations, it will extend the crystals’ lives by at least an extra month.”

 

Wildman nodded. “It’s doable, captain, but after this batch runs out, they’ll be back to the same old drek that’s barely seventy-five percent pure,” she replies in disgust.

 

Kathryn shrugs. “But it’s not new technology or an insurmountable technological leap—if any of them are smart enough to even simply pay attention to what we’re doing, they can learn make crystals this pure and stable with their own equipment.”

 

“And if they’re too lazy to learn?”

 

Kathryn’s gaze hardens as they enter the turbolift. “Then it’s not our problem, Samantha,” she replies harshly. “As the old saying goes, _‘you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink.’_ We’ll do our best, but it will be up to them to learn.”

 

#

 

Kathryn lowers herself tiredly onto the stone shelf overlooking the main mining area; the entire cavern sparkles like fairyland as the lights they’ve installed bounces off the crystalline formations throughout the structure. It’s a hive of activity as her crew bustles about, taking readings, adjusting instrument panels on the extractors, or packaging the final products for transport. There are rich veins containing dilithium, kerdrinium, coronite, as well as many semi-precious stones and minerals to be mined in this one cavern alone and the Cazenchin Traders were happy to share the location of this resource planet in order to receive the high-quality fruits of _Voyager’s_ mining processes.

 

Opening the small canister of water, she drinks deeply, savouring the cool, refreshing liquid as it slips down her parched throat. From the lunch sack that Noah Lessing handed her—before shooing her away from the mining area with the exasperated injunction to “eat something, captain”—she removes an insulated bowl of Chell’s _Mystery Lunch_. As she opens it, an unmistakeable aroma assails her senses and she laughs. Warp Core Chilli or some such pun if she remembers correctly; at least it’s warm and smells edible.

 

“So, I take it you don’t trust me anymore.” B’Elanna’s voice is low, belligerent, as she sits down beside Kathryn.

 

“Excuse me?” Kathryn says staring at her chief engineer as if she’s grown another head.

 

“Well what the hell am I supposed to think when you show up unannounced and practically take over, captain, other than I can’t be trusted to run a simple mining operation?”

 

Kathryn looks away from the anger and hurt in her friend’s eyes. _In running away from one problem, you inevitably create others and do nothing to solve the first_ , her mother has always warned her.

 

“What are you doing here, Kathryn?”

 

After ten years, B’Elanna Torres is only one of two women on _Voyager_ who uses her first name— _three now with Elizabeth_ , her conscience reminds her—while Samantha Wildman only dares to do so in private and only when she’s sure of the informality of the situation.

 

Kathryn is unable to respond; the _Captain_ on the other hand has a lot to say, but knows if she dares show her head now, B’Elanna is just mad enough to rip it off and stuff it down her throat.

 

They sit and eat as the awkward silence drags on between them.

 

Apparently satisfied that the _Captain_ wouldn’t butt in, B’Elanna continues in an infinitely gentler tone of voice, “Don’t you think you could use this time more productively by showing our new ambassador around? Perhaps introduce her to our trading partners? Hell, she’d probably be able to negotiate a much sweeter deal for us.”

 

“I don’t want to overwhelm her—throw her into the deep end after little more than a week,” Kathryn replies quietly, losing her appetite for the rapidly cooling chilli.

 

Torres regards her sceptically, one eyebrow crawling towards her forehead ridges. “So you just leave her to the tender mercies of my _husband_? You know, Thomas Eugene _Paris_? I mean, I love the man, but by all the dishonourable _kos’karii_ serpents in the waters of Gre’thor, Kathryn, you leave it to _Tom_ to get her acclimated?”

 

Kathryn’s gaze travels over the cavern again, darting everywhere except towards her friend. “They seem to get along fine—she seems happy and she’s making friends.”

 

“Yeah, and she’s so happy, she wakes up three nights out of four screaming—”

 

Kathryn feels her heart leap into her throat. _“Oh God,”_ she whispers, but Torres continues mercilessly.

 

“And the only reason she didn’t have a nightmare that one night is because she never went to sleep. She, Jenny and Meghan Delaney, Golwat, Marla Gilmore and Telora Olawende stayed out clubbing all night on the holodeck. You’re lucky Olawende has the cabin on the other side of her—she won’t gossip, but she is concerned.”

 

_Nightmares—I’ve abandoned Elizabeth to face her nightmares alone._

 

Kathryn grasps at the first thing to catch her attention as she attempts to turn her mind from that horrible truth.

 

“Clubbing?”

 

“Carousing after-hours dance clubs popular in the Twentieth Century,” B’Elanna explains. “Apparently they spent most of the night in a New York City club from the nineteen seventies called _Forty-seven_ or maybe _Fifty-four_ ... some odd number like that. Mind you, I hear that she’s a really great dancer—the girls are really impressed and Olawende thinks we’d really clean up at the next Cabaret with her on our side. But Kathryn, even the Delaneys are concerned about her behaviour—and you know something is seriously wrong when _Jenny Delaney_ gets concerned about a party-girl.”

 

“What about her behaviour?” Kathryn croaks, her throat tightening about her words.

 

“Namely, according to Jenny and Meghan, Elizabeth’s categorically _not_ a party-girl,” Torres replies. “And they should know, Kathryn. Telora thinks Elizabeth is just desperate to connect with something—anything—and the holodeck gives her an illusion of a connection to her past. But the worst thing is that she knows it’s an illusion ... she can’t get away from it—hence the partying. Furthermore, while we’re on duty, what do you think she’s doing right now?”

 

“I don’t know.” Kathryn’s voice sounds harsh to her own ears, but she makes herself ask the question. “What does she do while we’re on duty?”

 

“As far as we can tell, when she’s not with Moira, she does nothing,” Torres says. “She rarely accesses the computer—just sits in her quarters. For the last few days, she hasn’t left it unless someone comes to take her out, and then she’s almost manic. Samantha got Elizabeth to accompany her with Icheb, Naomi, and the other children on an outing to a water park on the holodeck yesterday—and in Sam’s opinion, her mood-swings in those couple of hours made it seem like she was on some narcotic. Both Sam and Telora think that Elizabeth is depressed, and I know that it’s only been a few days, but Moira is watching her like a hawk.”

 

“I see,” Kathryn says looking down at her hands; she and depression are old friends.

 

“You’re the only person she’s truly connected with, Kathryn. She’s in a brand new world, four hundred years in a future not her own, alone and afraid—not only of the reality of it, but of the possibility that it’s _not_ real ... that it’s another sick bit of torture by those Borg wannabes from her universe. Now is _not_ the time for you to withdraw from her,” Torres continues, anger shading her voice. “The rest of us; we’re acquaintances. Tom, Harry, Tal, Meghan, Jenny, Telora, Sam—we all think that in time we can be great friends with her, but here and now, we’re not what she needs.”

 

“What does she need?” Kathryn whispers around the lump in her throat.

 

“To speak to the only person she trusts to be real ... to _connect_ with the one person she _needs_ to be real.”

 

#

 

Elizabeth sits on the couch beneath the large window in the living room of her quarters—VIP quarters, she’s since learned—chewing idly on the end of her pencil. On her lap is a hardcover notebook Moira had suggested she replicate to write down her thoughts and feelings as part of her therapy.

 

However, she fills its pages with everything except her _thoughts and feelings_ , as she attempts to save memories of people and languages and _things_ that no longer matter in this new universe.

 

Kathryn’s holographic doctor is correct; her memory is razor-sharp now … especially for a lot of things she would rather not remember. She shakes her head as if to dislodge the uncomfortable thought and turns her mind to something else.

 

_Kathryn_.

 

_Voyager’s_ captain has been scarce since she asked Elizabeth to be her ambassador. The bulbous, ungainly ships of the Cazenchin Traders’ float outside the window and Elizabeth wonders if Janeway is over there or on the planet; she’d asked the computer about her availability two hours ago, and was told that the captain was not on board ship. She’d declined to leave a message asking Kathryn to contact her; it wasn’t important.

 

Elizabeth has only seen Kathryn half a dozen times and spoken to her twice in the last week. She knows that Janeway is busy running her ship, but she can’t help but be disappointed that her friend hasn’t found time for her.

 

_Enough of your self-pity_.

 

Returning her gaze to the blank page, she begins the painstaking translation from memory of random phrases in Jean Marc Benton’s _Philosophy and Reality_. The translations go from English to Goa’uld to Ancient and finally to Latin.

 

We are all under one Universe.

 

_Tap so rek Cal Mah’ai ryn._

_Nou ani omnes subouno Avernakis._

_Nos samus omnis sub Universus._

 

 

From the past, the future can be inferred.

 

_Kree! Rok nokia aki so mel nok._

_Abo acturos aden potentio valerus sillatas._

_Ab actu ad posse valet illatio._

 

 

From a thing’s possibility, one cannot be certain of its reality.

 

_Rok pak’ureh nok sero merek._

_Abo potentio aden ressentere na valerus illac seventu._

_A posse ad esse non valet consequentia._

 

 

Her door chimes and still engrossed in her translation she calls distractedly, “Who is it?”

 

_“Kathryn.”_

 

Elizabeth’s head snaps up as the object of her earlier thoughts comes over the comm system. Although she’s been hoping her friend would contact her, it’s still a surprise.

 

“Speak of the devil,” she mutters as she places her book on the coffee table. “Come in.”

 

Kathryn is smiling as she enters, but hesitates on the threshold; in one hand she’s holding a small flat computer tablet. “Are you busy at the moment?”

 

“No. Not at all,” Elizabeth replies, returning her smile. “I was just doing some translations.”

 

Kathryn’s eyes widen in surprise, which gives way to a fleeting look of relief and then genuine curiosity as she darts forward allowing the door to close. “Translations? Of what? May I see?”

 

In fact, the almost childlike expression of delight on the other woman’s face throws Elizabeth for a moment. “Ah … sure, of course,” she replies, picking up the book and handing it to Kathryn, who drops her computer on the table.

 

As Kathryn runs her fingers reverentially over the page of translations she’s been working on, Elizabeth walks over to the replicator. “May I get you anything to drink?”

 

“Hmm?” Kathryn tears her gaze away from the page, flushing with embarrassment.

 

“A drink?” Elizabeth repeats. “I was just going to have a cup of coffee.”

 

“Thank you, coffee would be lovely—black please.” Kathryn returns her attention to the book as Elizabeth gives their orders to the computer. “This is extraordinary,” the captain of _Voyager_ says and Elizabeth hears wonder in her voice. As she returns and places their drinks on the low coffee table, Kathryn asks, “Did you do all this work in the last week?

 

It’s then Elizabeth realises that she’s filled almost seventy-five percent of the five-hundred-page book; it is then that she remembers the pictures, diagrams and concepts she’s obsessively detailed as the need hit her.

 

 

_Lt. Colonel John Sheppard …_

_Dr. Rodney McKay …_

_Teyla Emmagen …_

_Lt. Aiden Ford …_

_Ronon Dex …_

_Atlantis …_

_Stargate …_

_Naquadah …_

_Drone Weapons …_

_Zero Point Modules …_

_Ancient Technology Activation Gene …_

_Mother ... Father ... Fiancé ... even her dog, Sedgewick ..._

 

“It isn’t all translations,” she says softly, hoping Kathryn doesn’t go rifling through the book.

 

“It’s amazing; you’ve not only transliterated the alien languages phonetically, but written each in their native writing systems,” Kathryn marvels and points to the Goa’uld writing. “This one looks somehow familiar.”

 

Elizabeth smiles. “You have a good eye,” she says. “That’s Goa’uld—the script is based on ancient Meroitic script, which is related to ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. Goa’uld may also be written in hieroglyphs, but I never had time to learn. The Goa’uld posed as many of the ancient gods—the first ones we met were Ra and Apophis.”

 

“Wow,” Kathryn breathes, “and the other alien script? The phonetic transliteration of the language is remarkably reminiscent of the Latin beneath it.”

 

“That’s because as far as we could determine, Latin is a more linear form of Ancient, simplified to fit the Phoenician and Greek evolutionary path of the native Terran writing system that came to dominate in the Mediterranean region over the last few thousand years.”

 

“My God!” Kathryn laughs. “That news will no doubt set a few ears back in Federation archaeological circles.”

 

It’s Elizabeth’s turn to be surprised at her easy acceptance. “It doesn’t bother you?”

 

“No, why should it? It’s certainly surprising, but why would it bother anyone?”

 

Kathryn’s puzzlement is genuine and Elizabeth laughs at herself. “I keep forgetting that your people have had four hundred years of history—four hundred years of growing up that mine hadn’t by the time I left Earth.

 

“So what is it you needed to see me about?” she asks, deliberately steering the conversation away from her book.

 

Kathryn’s smile returns. “Actually, I’m in need of my ambassador much sooner than I thought,” she replies as Elizabeth finds her heart speeding up in anticipation. “I had hoped to give you some more time to get settled before dropping you in the deep end, but I’m having a bit of an issue with our latest trading partners.”

 

“What’s the problem?”

 

“Well, when Chakotay secured the co-operation of the Cazenchin in planning our rescue, in payment for the credit account they allowed B’Elanna to use, they were given the position of an unclaimed world where we found what are called Bocerra Pearls—very widely sought after pearl-like gems formed in the bodies of a certain insect from one or more of its unfertilised eggs. Apparently they’ve been transplanted to a number of worlds, but no one knew where the original creature had come from. We also traded them about a quarter of the pearls we’d harvested. However, part of the deal was that we also mined this planet for them; our extraction methods yield higher quality alloys and other mining products than their methods, and with far fewer impurities. The agreed upon split of the resources was thirty percent for _Voyager_ and seventy for them.”

 

“Okay, I’m with you so far,” Elizabeth says quietly as it sinks in how much this crew has paid to get their captain back. “It all sounds fair and straightforward—if overly generous on your part; where’s the hitch?”

 

“The _hitch_ , as you put it,” Kathryn replies unhappily, “is that the Cazenchin have just recently learned that the Fen’Domar Empire has closed its boarders to alien vessels and have tightened already stringent security and rules for even their trading partners at the boarder stations. Even just getting back to their home base will take the Cazenchin close to half a standard year if they have to skirt the Fen’Domar boarders—and the world that we found the pearls on is on the _other_ side of the Empire; it could take them two years to get there, and god knows when they’ll be able to realize a profit from it. Furthermore, it’s less than ten light years from the Empire’s boarders. The Cazenchin are afraid that if the Fen’Domar decide to go on another of their expansion binges—”

 

“They’ll gobble it up,” Elizabeth finishes shrewdly and Kathryn nods. “So all of a sudden, the lucrative trade they made when your crew was desperate, doesn’t look quite so lucrative anymore and they want to welch on the deal.”

 

“Exactly.” Kathryn looks down at the computer tablet in her hand. “Many of the Traders believe that this incident with _Voyager_ is to blame—and I’m willing to concede that we may have been a contributing factor—but from what I can tell, the Fen’Domar are just spoiling for a fight and this has been brewing for quite some time now.  Anyway, the Traders are pressuring their leader, Mistress Holsomi, to recoup their “losses” from us, slash our take from this mining operation from thirty percent to less than ten—or nothing, if they can get away with it.”

 

Kathryn’s blue eyes are suddenly diamond hard. “I’ve already let Mistress Holsomi know that this is unacceptable. We’ll be heading out into open space again very soon; we _need_ these supplies, especially since we don’t know when we’ll be able to stock up again.”

 

“What’s your tactical situation?” Elizabeth asks thoughtfully, and then laughs at Kathryn’s obvious surprise. “Believe me—it took me quite a while to learn to think in terms of exploring John’s military tactical options as well my own automatic tendencies towards diplomatic negotiations and machinations.”

 

Kathryn chuckles and shakes her head; there is a look of definite admiration in her eyes. “They’re merchant ships, lightly armed with a top velocity of warp 8.25, which I doubt they can sustain for very long—probably less than six hours,” she replies. “Their usual sustained warp velocity is about warp 6.5, but they can sustain up to warp 7.25 if they really need to get somewhere more quickly. They can hurt us if they swarm us—inflict some damage if they catch us off-guard, but _Voyager_ is much faster and a hell of a lot better armed.”

 

“So if worse comes to worse, you can fight your way through or even just run.”

 

“Yes,” Kathryn replies. “Our top velocity is warp 9.98. I know that doesn’t sound much faster than warp 8.25, but the warp scale is a roughly logarithmic one; it approaches warp 10, but at that point the equations governing it break down—not to mention so would the structural integrity of most ships. Theoretically, a ship travelling at warp 10 would pass through all points of the universe simultaneously—” Her lips tug into a rueful smile as Elizabeth’s eyes widen in shock. “And take it from me; very bad things can happen to organic beings travelling at warp 10.”

 

They share a smile in the comfortable silence for a few moments before Elizabeth asks, “So if you can fly away and defend yourself doing it, why not just extricate your ship from a deteriorating situation as quickly as possible? That would be the sensible thing to do—you’ve upheld your end of the bargain. Why go the diplomatic route?”

 

Kathryn held her gaze. “Honestly, despite this, the Cazenchin are one of the more reasonable—even kinder—species we’ve met out here,” she says, the fatigue and worry evident in her voice. “They may have gotten involved for the most mercenary of reasons, but they _got_ involved. We’ve been out here for ten years, and believe me, it doesn’t happen a lot. I’d like to leave here with them as friends rather than resentful enemies. And in many ways, I do feel some measure of responsibility for their situation.

 

“The credit account they allowed us to use represented about five percent of the net for this Caravan, Elizabeth. They are a largely nomadic people—trade is their life’s blood—and with the Empire’s boarders closed, they stand to lose forty percent of their client base or more; that isn’t a small thing. With the boarders open, they could recoup what they extended us within a month or two—that’s what they were counting on. But with the boarders closed, it may be two ... even as much as five years before they realise any profits from the pearl planet, if any at all.

 

“Their newest ships are ten to fifteen years old and most are over twenty-five years old. Their warp designs are at least three generations behind ours and we can’t make them more efficient unless we redesign them radically—something forbidden by the Prime Directive. Some of their ships are theoretically capable of warp 8.75 or even warp 9, but the power output of their warp core is such that they can’t go faster without severely compromising their environmental systems and to a certain extent, their weapons. Some of their energy needs are alleviated by secondary power generators, but even there, they’re quite inefficient and at the end of their usefulness in terms of how far this design can be upgraded. However, we’re not allowed to trade Starfleet designs. If they’d shown any inkling of thinking in our direction, I might have permitted B’Elanna and her engineers to help them develop it, but they haven’t.”

 

Kathryn is quiet again for another few minutes. “Then there is my crew’s morale,” she continues at last. “Too many times, things end with us having to shoot our way out—most times it is unavoidable … just the way of the galaxy. But it affects them; I know it hits them hard, especially if someone is lost. I’d really like to avoid that if I can.”

 

It’s Elizabeth’s turn to gaze at Kathryn in frank admiration. _If this crew would do anything for this woman, it’s because she would do anything for them_ , she realises and feels a measure of peace in that realisation.

 

As the silence stretches out between them again, she’s hit by a sudden thought and reaches for her book. Flipping back through it, she finally comes to the page she’s looking for and she also comes to a decision.

 

“Tell me about the ores you’re mining.”

 

Surprise flows into puzzlement. “The ores?” Kathryn asks hesitantly.

 

“Yes,” Elizabeth replies. “Is there anything down there that looks like this or has a similar structure?”

 

She hands Kathryn the book. It is open to the page with her description of _naquadah_.

 

#

 

B’Elanna Torres is seriously annoyed. Two hours ago, Janeway had called the mining operation to a screeching halt. Cazenchin security personnel had swarmed into the cavern— _to protect their assets_ , they’d said. In response, Tuvok’s security teams had beamed in onto the ledges above them, covering them with compression phaser rifles.

 

Since then, Janeway has disappeared; first onto Mistress Holsomi’s ship, and then into Elizabeth Weir’s quarters.

 

“Captain, what in the name of _Gre’thor_ is going on?” she demands entering the briefing room.

 

“B’Elanna ...” Tom says gently, trying to deflect her ire.

 

“B’Elanna, Tom, please take your seats,” Janeway orders as Tuvok enters behind them and slides into his chair without a word, completing the senior team.

 

Janeway stands at the head of the table with Weir, who is dressed in a long black jacket over black pants and a crisp white shirt. Her expression is neutral, but watchful; her posture is ramrod straight, yet she somehow appears relaxed with her arms are folded across her chest and her long, curly hair is pulled into one thick braid. She looks every bit the cool, professional diplomat.

 

B’Elanna takes her seat next to Tom without another word. After a beat, Janeway begins to speak, explaining the Cazenchin’s situation and the reasons for their actions.

 

“That’s _not_ our fault!” B’Elanna explodes—outraged that all her hard work extracting the ores might come to nothing. “We gave the dishonourable _p’taqs_ everything they asked for!”

 

“Actually, that might be part of the problem, B’Elanna,” Weir says quietly.

 

That stops B’Elanna’s incipient tirade in its tracks. _“Wh-what?”_ she stammers. “What are you talking about?”

 

“In your original negotiations with them, you pretty much gave in to all their demands,” Weir replies. “And now looking back in hindsight, they can’t help but wonder.”

 

“But that’s only because we needed to get the rescue operation underway quickly,” Chakotay counters angrily. “There wasn’t any time for useless haggling—the pearl planet had no value for us; it was light years away in the _wrong_ direction.”

 

“The deal was too good to be true,” Tom says with a look of sudden recognition. “They thought they had us over a barrel, but in light of what’s happened, they now think we set them up for just such a scenario.”

 

“Exactly Tom,” Weir responds with a small smile. “You have to take into account their mindset—they’re a trading culture and haggling is expected, even if it is only for form’s sake.”

 

“So what the hell do we do now?” B’Elanna asks. “Captain, we can’t afford to give up those supplies—”

 

“I know,” Janeway replies, “and I’m hoping that with Dr. Weir’s help we won’t have to.”

 

“Captain?” Chakotay says in confusion.

 

Janeway looks at Weir and nods, then steps back and lowers herself into her seat, silently ceding the floor to the diplomat.

 

“When Kathryn brought this problem to me,” she begins quietly. “I automatically started to think negotiation and arbitration, but then I remembered the one thing my military advisor used to harp on with me—when he wasn’t racing headlong into trouble that is— _what’s the tactical situation_? Our discussion eventually led to a discussion of the Cazenchin ships and technology—specifically that their propulsion system is vastly inferior to this ship’s and running their life support and weapons further degrades its effectiveness. As well, their secondary power generators that are supposed to carry much of the load from the environmental system are also quite inefficient.”

 

“That’s correct,” B’Elanna murmurs nodding. “But how does this help us?”

 

“Well, as I understand your Prime Directive, we’re not allowed to trade Federation technology and their systems can’t be upgraded any further without making that leap.” Again B’Elanna nods and Weir smiles, glancing over at a grinning Janeway. “But what about trading technology developed by a United States Air Force Major nearly four hundred years ago on an Earth a few universes to the left of this one?”

 

B’Elanna feels a sudden spark of excitement ignite deep in her gut. “Okay ...” she says looking from one woman to the other. “What have you two cooked up?”

 

“ _B’Elanna_ ,” Janeway drawls. “You know I have no skill whatsoever in the kitchen.” A burst of laughter ripples around the table regarding the captain’s infamous ability at being able to burn even replicated food. “Elizabeth’s the cook—it’s all her doing.”

 

A blush crawls up the diplomat’s neck and across her cheeks; B’Elanna chuckles at her embarrassment. “Okay, Dr. Weir,” she says curiously. “What have you got in mind?”

 

In response, the other woman picks up a large, hardcover book, opens it to a page marked by a tasselled card, and stretching across the table hands it to her.

 

“Kathryn tells me there is an abundance of this mineral on this planet and elsewhere in this system.”

 

“That’s right,” B’Elanna says, studying the neat handwritten formula and notes. _Naquadah_. “It’s just basic veroxi-transquartzite—an ore in which more useful minerals are usually found; compounds like terellium, which we use as a warp reaction catalyst. As far as I know, no one’s ever found a use for veroxi-transquartzite. It’s stable, almost inert, although there is a form that it can be converted to—after extensive refining—that’s highly unstable and plays holy havoc with the fabric of subspace and warp fields. Not a good thing to fool around with.”

 

The diplomat’s smile is smug, bordering on gloating. “In my universe, we call it _naquadah_ , a Goa’uld word, and it’s one of the most—if not _the_ most—important mineral in the technology of most space-faring worlds, including Earth.”

 

_“What?”_ B’Elanna looks at the woman in complete shock.

 

“Are you sure you’re talking about the same thing, B’Elanna?” Kim asks in confusion as he comes around her chair to study the notebook over her shoulder.

 

“Kathryn has confirmed it,” Weir continues. “And if you’ll turn the page, you’ll find my notes on _naquadria_ , the more volatile form, and further on, about ten pages of schematics for a _naquadah_ generator, first developed in 1999 by the then Major Samantha Carter of the US Air Force with the help of a people known as the Orbanians.”

 

“I thought you didn’t have any scientific knowledge, Dr. Weir,” Annika says, speaking up for the first time. The suspicion lacing her voice is clearly evident and B’Elanna bristles at the sound of it; Tom’s hand on her arm is the only thing that keeps her from exploding.

 

Weir’s voice is deceptively light as she answers, but only a fool—or a _Borg_ —would miss the undercurrent of anger in it. “I honestly didn’t think I had any, Annika,” she replies. “Science isn’t something I’ve ever paid much attention to. So believe me, it came as quite a surprise to me as well that there was that much of it in my head. And if you look at my notes, you’ll see that what’s there is basically in layman’s terms—because that’s how it was explained to me.

 

The Doctor’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. “It’s probably a consequence of how the nanites rewired Dr. Weir’s brain with the nanocytes.”

 

Weir nods in agreement. “I can now remember and regurgitate things with an almost photographic amount of detail that I wouldn’t have been able to before my accident—even things I have little understanding of. For example, the _naquadah_ generator—”

 

B’Elanna flips through the intricate drawings as the woman continues.

 

“I only saw those schematics once for all of thirty minutes—when one of my scientists, Dr. Radek Zalenka, took me through them as he tried to explain to me what went wrong with one generator, causing part of my city to black-out. After that I never thought of it again until a few days ago—when I spent all day drawing those schematics. I’ve been using that book mostly to practise my translations, but I also started jotting down things from my universe that I didn’t want to forget ... doing drawings of my city ... little portraits of my family and friends ...”

 

Her voice trails off hoarsely and B’Elanna’s heart breaks for her; Janeway reaches up and take’s her hand, squeezing it. Weir looks down into her eyes and something indefinable, yet palpably _personal_ passes between them. Feeling like a voyeur, B’Elanna looks down at the book in her hands again. She meets Tom’s gaze and he grins knowingly at her, before reaching in and turning the page. They’re greeted with lines and lines of incomprehensible writing in what looks like five or six different languages.

 

“Ah ... Dr. Weir ...” Tom calls out, lifting his confused gaze to her. “Exactly how many languages do you know, ma’am?”

 

She laughs, low and delightedly. “It depends on the context, I guess,” she replies.

 

“Actually, I’m curious about that myself, Elizabeth,” Janeway says as she releases the woman’s hand.

 

“Well, I’m fluent and literate in five languages; French, Russian, Arabic, Japanese and Latin,” she explains. “I’m conversationally competent, but hardly fluent, in Italian, Spanish, Gaelic, American Sign Language, and now, the Dom’ruun. However, although I don’t formally read and write Italian and Spanish _per se_ , I can generally get the gist of a written passage because I know French and Latin. I’m literate in German and Greek—and since joining the Stargate program—Ancient and Goa’uld, meaning I can read and write those languages, but don’t really speak them with any competence. Granted, no one’s really spoken Ancient in about ten thousand years, though Latin does stem from it, so I can generally muddle my way through if I’m reading a passage out loud, while Goa’uld simply grates on my throat—I find it difficult to get the tonalities just right. Finally, from my work with the UN, I know how to speak a small smattering of Mandarin Chinese, Hindu and Swahili. I also picked up a bit of Cree by osmosis from a childhood friend’s grandfather when I was in grade school and some rather vulgar Danish from a very _old_ boyfriend in college.”

 

She chuckles softly again, but this time there’s a definite nervousness in her gaze as they stare at her in absolute shock.

 

“You know—what— _nineteen_ languages!” Harry Kim voices the outrage and awe B’Elanna knows they all must be feeling.

 

Tuvok breaks the silence that permeates the room again. “Actually, Mr. Kim, Dr. Weir knows twenty languages, because if I’m not mistaken, she’s also fluent and literate in English.”

 

Weir blushes deeply again as all their gazes return to her. “You’re right of course, Commander Tuvok,” she says. “I often forget to include English on the list.”

 

“May I ask why?” Though Tuvok’s tones are as dispassionate as ever, B’Elanna fancies she can hear the definite curiosity in them.

 

“I suppose it’s because to my mind, I never really had to _learn_ English—not consciously; it was just always there ... a foundation I’ve always had. I mean, intellectually I know that I learned English like I learned any other language, but I’ve never felt I had to _work_ to learn it like I did the other languages I’ve acquired.” She chuckles softly. “I don’t know if that made _any_ sense.”

 

Tuvok nods to her, signalling his acceptance of her explanation.

 

“It makes perfect sense,” Janeway says, smiling at her friend. “But we’re getting rather far afield from the subject at hand. Dr. Weir has suggested that we offer the Cazenchin the _naquadah_ generators to replace the ones they currently use on their ships. Now, what Elizabeth has drawn are the schematics for a third-generation device. However, I want them to be able to understand and maintain whatever we give them at their current level of technology—make improvements as their understanding grows. B’Elanna, do you think you can reverse engineer a generator that would set them at the starting point of this technology? I suspect that even a first-generation device will take enough strain off their warp cores that most of their ships would probably be able to maintain warp 7.5 easily as their new sustainable warp velocity and be able to push warp 8.75 or even warp 9 in a crunch situation.”

 

“Give me a few hours, captain,” B’Elanna replies excitedly, looking down at the schematics again. “And can you spare Vorik, Nicolletti, Gilmore and our Mr. Kim?”

 

“Take whatever personnel you need, B’Elanna—this is priority.”

 

“Then I think I can have a working model for you within forty-eight hours.”

 

“I would also like to be on your team, commander,” Annika says.

 

“Not in your condition you’re not,” B’Elanna retorts. As the pregnant young woman opens her mouth to protest, she relents. “You can help with the design, but that’s it. Meet us in holo lab one and we’ll go from there.” Without waiting for Annika’s reply, she turns back to Janeway. “Actually captain, I think that we can accomplish something similar on _Voyager_ with the third-generation device—it would alleviate a lot of our energy supply problems,” she says excitedly as she considers the ramifications of the technology.

 

Kathryn laughs. “I knew you’d be able to see the possibilities, B’Elanna,” she replies, eyes twinkling. “The same thought occurred to me—good to see you’re on the same page. Have a proposal to me by the end of the week.”

 

“Yes captain,” B’Elanna replies breathlessly, eager to leave.

 

“Actually, before we break this up, there are a couple of other things about her universe that Elizabeth would like to acquaint us with,” Janeway continues and B’Elanna has no choice but to settle back into her chair.

 

“May I have my book back?” Weir asks and B’Elanna reluctantly hands it over to her. “Don’t worry; Kathryn has already copied the schematics into _Voyager’s_ computer.”

 

B’Elanna nods as Elizabeth quickly leafs through the book, obviously searching for a page close to the beginning.

 

“Although _naquadah_ is a Goa’uld word,” she says, “our first experience with the substance itself was in 1928, in the form of a giant ring made of a mineral not found on Earth and buried for thousands of years beneath the sands of Giza, Egypt not far from the Great Pyramid. Eventually we came to understand that it was some sort of ancient device, but didn’t know how to make it work until 1996, when an archaeologist named Dr. Daniel Jackson deciphered the symbols that allowed the dialling of a specific combination—and if you think I’m surprising because I know twenty languages, well at last count, Daniel knew thirty-five and counting.”

 

Holding the book open so they can all see the circular device, divided into equal segments by nine chevrons, she continues. “The device was called the Stargate and it was used to create a stable wormhole connection to other Stargates on other planets—”

 

#

 

 


	4. Part 4

**Be My Homeward Dove**

 

Part 4

 

Kathryn stares at her friend in utter shock. When Elizabeth had told her that she was finally ready to brief _Voyager’s_ captain and officers on her past, Kathryn’s heart had soared—but _this_? Yet, looking up at the other woman’s face, she knows that Elizabeth is telling the truth.

 

“Stable planet to planet _wormholes_?” B’Elanna’s snarl of disbelief startles them all as it shatters the silence. “What by the fires of _Gre’thor_ are you talking about? That’s impossible—the subspace stresses would tear both planets apart!”

 

“Commander Torres, please allow Dr. Weir to continue.” Kathryn’s order is unmistakable, and despite the glower on the half-Klingon’s face, she obeys.

 

“I know it’s hard to believe, B’Elanna,” Elizabeth says sympathetically. “And, from what I understand from various things I’ve heard people say since I’ve been here, the phenomenon you call a _wormhole_ may have nothing to do with our _Stargate wormholes_ —like I said, I know very little science. What I do know is that the Stargates are able to establish connections across vast regions of space, and that is how we finally began to explore worlds outside our solar system—not with ships, like your Earth did, although we did eventually develop our own hyperspace ships with the help of our allies. Our explorations began with simply dialling an address into the Gate, sending through a probe to test the atmospheric and general conditions, then stepping through the event horizon.”

 

“Stepping through the _event_ _horizon_?” Paris croaks.

 

Elizabeth chuckles at their obvious disbelief. “You could walk through it as naked as the day you were born, Tom, and come out the other side perfectly fine—although you might want to make sure of the conditions on the other planet beforehand. The way Carter explained it to me is that the Stargate disintegrates a person or object that crosses the event horizon, storing the information as energy in some type of buffer, then transmits the information through a stable artificial wormhole through subspace to the receiving Gate’s buffer, where it’s reintegrated back into matter as it crosses the event horizon out onto the planet being explored.”

 

“My god, it’s a long-distance version of our transporter,” Harry Kim whispers, “something similar to the Sikarian Trajector.”

 

It’s Elizabeth’s turn to stare in complete surprise. “A version of your transporter?”

 

“What you describe is similar to the way our transporters work, Elizabeth,” Kathryn says ruefully. “The targeting scanners scan a person at the quantum level, once a transport lock is established, the transporter beam then dematerialises the person, converting them to energy, transmitting it through subspace and storing it in a pattern buffer, from which they are reintegrated at their destination.”

 

“But our transporters are fairly short-ranged,” B’Elanna explains. “From a planetary surface to orbit is the usual limit to the distance across which transports are effected.”

 

“Although, I did transport from the Utopia Planetia shipyards in orbit of Mars, directly to Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco once during a Fleet emergency,” Chakotay murmurs thoughtfully.

 

“But the Trajector was able to send Harry and a certain Sikarian young lady across twenty-five to thirty thousand light years of space to another planet,” Paris says as Kim blushes with embarrassment.

 

“We tried to acquire the technology, but it wasn’t compatible with Starfleet technology—it started to damage the ship,” B’Elanna continues in a quiet, sober voice.

 

Kathryn remembers how the Sikarian debacle had nearly shaken her faith in the young woman she’d chosen to be her chief engineer—and had shaken her faith in Tuvok, her closest friend and confidant ... the person she’d trusted to be her _‘moral compass’_.

 

“Furthermore, it had to be done in orbit of Sikaris,” the chief engineer says, “as the planet itself acted like an amplifier to send objects across such a vast distance.”

 

“Tell me, B’Elanna,” Elizabeth says thoughtfully, resting the book on the briefing room table and pointing to the Stargate. “Was the planet’s crust rich in _naquadah_?”

 

Torres’ eyes widens in shock as Kathryn’s breath catches in her throat.

 

“ _Kahless_ … not only the crust—almost the entire mantle was made of the quartzite precursor!”

 

“Thought so—one of the things Samantha Carter told me is that _naquadah_ can not only absorb a great deal of energy, it can also act as a signal amplifier. An effect of that property is that it keeps the patterns stable and coherent in subspace over vast distances between Gates.”

 

“Just how far could you travel between these _Stargates_ , Elizabeth?” Kathryn whispers hoarsely as the implications of _naquadah_ -based technology fall into place in her mind.

 

Elizabeth’s gaze lingers on Kathryn for a moment—almost like a tender caress. “Let me put it this way, Kathryn, I didn’t enter your Milky Way Galaxy from my Milky Way when I ran from the Replicators; I entered it from my _Pegasus_ Galaxy.”

 

Kathryn’s voice sticks in her throat. _“The Pegasus Galaxy?”_ she croaks out staring at her in absolute shock.

 

“In early 2004, after a new administration came into power in the US government, I was brought in to oversee this extraordinary program,” Elizabeth replies. “At this point the Stargate had been in regular operation for over seven years and was run by the US Air Force. It looked like they would have to go public with the program, so President Henry Hayes was looking to put a more acceptable face than the American military industrial complex on it from a public relations point of view, and thought that an internationally known diplomat would smooth things over with our allies. There were also some political machinations going on behind the scenes, and Vice President Kinsey, who had more than a few contacts with some very shady characters, thought I would be more pliable … more easily controlled and amenable to his ah … _needs_ than General Hammond, the then leader of Stargate Command. Let’s just say that it didn’t work out terribly well for him—I proved to be quite _uncontrollable_.

 

“I was only in charge of Stargate Command for a few weeks—but they certainly weren’t boring. During that time, the armada of a very powerful Goa’uld System Lord called Anubis decided to pay us a visit—bring our upstart little planet back into line since we’d already taken out Ra, Apophis and a number of their brethren. While I tried to get up to speed on the program, the premiere Stargate team, SG-1, raced against time to find a weapon capable of defending Earth—they had found reference to the _Lost City_ of the Ancients. The leader of the team, Colonel Jack O’Neill, went as far as to download an entire Ancient database into his mind in order to find it and the data overload damned near killed him.

 

“However, they found that the powerful weapon they were looking for was on _Earth_ , ironically—in an Ancient outpost under the ice of Antarctica—but its power source, a zero point module, had been depleted. O’Neill, using the Ancient knowledge, found us a replacement ZPM in another outpost called _Taonas_ , left behind by the Ancients on the planet _Proclarush_ , which circled a dying star. O’Neill then used the weapon’s platform to destroy Anubis’ fleet. Afterwards, another System Lord called Ba’al tried to step into the power vacuum, so I tried to negotiate an alliance with a number of lesser powers he was trying to wipe out—that didn’t go so well—while also trying to help our allies, the Asgard, deal with the first type of Replicators we’d come across. Anyway, once Earth was relatively safe again, the President assigned me to oversee an international team working at the Antarctic base, charged us with finding location of the Lost City, which we did about six months later.”

 

Elizabeth’s voice holds them enthralled as she continues her story. “Millions of years ago, the Anquietas were forced to leave their home galaxy by their brethren, the Ori, with whom they’d had a philosophical dispute. As these Ancients evolved, they began to be able to ascend. The Ori faction of Ancients believed that ascension made them gods and that lesser, _unenlightened_ , un-ascended beings should worship them, and be controlled by them through religion, while the Anquietas faction believed in strict non-intervention in the affairs of the un-ascended. In the subsequent war, the Ori and their followers decimated the still mortal Anquietas, so the survivors, looking to start over, left their galaxy and came to the Milky Way in a number of vast city-ships. It seems that most went about their lives, living and dying as people do, while those who could achieve it often chose ascension. They seeded many planets—those viable for colonisation or rich in resources—with Stargates, building a vast network across the stars, through which they could maintain their technology base.

 

“However, it seems that one faction chose a third path; to try and recreate their species, bring about a second evolution of their kind, if you will, and watch them grow on a little blue planet tucked away in a little corner of the galaxy.” She smiles gently, holding Kathryn’s gaze—making no mistake regarding what she was speaking about. “You see, the Anquietas began to die of a devastating plague, which for some reason they couldn’t eradicate. Some think that it might have had something to do with the Ori—that’s their usual _modus operandi_ , spreading a plague among those who would not accept their religion and the enlightenment they promised, although it’s debatable whether they ever ascended a single soul. Apparently, the Ori drew their power from people’s worship of them. Again, those Anquietas who could manage it reached for ascension; while about one to five million years ago, the few that remained uninfected took their city-ships and fled to other galaxies. At least two that we know of made it to the Pegasus Galaxy; one was the city-ship that had been stationed at Earth’s Antarctic outpost—the one called _Terre Atalantus_.”

 

“Atalantus ... _Atlantis_?” Kathryn gasps as the name sinks in. Elizabeth nods with a wide grin.

 

“But Atlantis was clearly a _Greek_ legend!” Chakotay explodes, unable to suppress his disbelief any longer. “Plato’s writings state that it sank beneath the waves of the Atlantic, just outside the Pillars of Hercules—the Strait of Gibraltar.”

 

“Well apparently Plato heard it from the last surviving Ancients who were forced out of Pegasus about ten thousand years ago after they got their arrogant asses kicked by the Wraith,” Elizabeth says in an incredibly dry tone. “Apparently their Human seeding program had worked so well on Earth that they decided to do the same in their new stomping grounds. But instead of seeding just one planet, they seeded _thousands_ of planets with a species created in their own image—I suppose that this time, they didn’t want to put all their eggs in one basket. They also set up another vast interstellar network of Stargates. However, one of the planets they ended up seeding with Humans held a dark secret of its own; it was home to an insectoid species we’ve come to know as the Iratus bug. The Iratus has the ability to inject its DNA and a special enzyme into its prey—usually small rodents and lizard-like creatures, probably to make them a more compatible food source. But somehow, Iratus DNA recombined with the DNA of the fledgling Humans on that planet to give rise to the Wraith.

 

“We don’t know what happened in the intervening time between the Human seeding and the rise of the Wraith to a galaxy-wide scourge—either the Ancients didn’t know about it or didn’t consider this new species a threat, but the Wraith were allowed to evolve, which they did quite handily, reproducing with the efficiency inherited from their insectoid progenitor. There was also evidence to suggest that some Ancients may have even helped it along—experimented with them, which may have resulted in their incredible leap in intelligence over such a short period of time.”

 

“Why in _God’s_ name?” Paris voices their collective outrage.

 

Elizabeth shrugs. “Because it was something new ... because they were arrogant and thought they could control them ... because they were so smug in their belief that their technological superiority could not be surmounted. Take your pick. But I found that the fundamental Wraith language is based on Ancient, and though their ships are partially organic, the inorganic parts were also based on Ancient design. However, as I said before, wherever they went, the Ancients left some dangerous things behind—Pegasus was no different. By the time they realised the Wraith were a threat, the cunning predators had already spread to the stars and begun feeding on all those helpless, primitive Human worlds, and like insects are apt to do—breeding exponentially from a single queen on board each of their vast hive ships. Therefore, although Wraith technology was considerably inferior to the Ancients—”

 

“The sheer weight of their numbers negated that advantage,” Kathryn whispers, the unspeakable horror of it rising in her gut.

 

Tuvok’s voice is measured, betraying no emotion. “It became a war of attrition.”

 

“Exactly, and with every victory ... every piece of captured technology, the Wraith learned at a frightening pace,” Elizabeth replies grimly. “To give them credit, the Ancients did try to protect their Human worlds, but by the end of a war that lasted a thousand years, only a handful—less than a couple hundred Ancients—remained in Atlantis, which had been besieged for a hundred years before they raised the great shield and sank the city beneath the waves of Lantea. They decided to return to their last refuge … to _Earth_ through the Stargate to live out their lives before dying or ascending; the Atlantis Gate was the only one in Pegasus capable of dialling Earth—at least we had that much security.

 

“Atlantis was left to slumber for ten thousand years before my expedition walked through its Gate on July 16, 2004 and in that time, the Wraith continued feeding on the Human worlds, rarely allowing them to progress in technology beyond farming and hunting. They did so in a very simple way—by not letting the populations grow to the point where technological innovation becomes a must. They did what any good farmer does; cull their Human herds every so often. Then they would go into hibernation, allowing those worlds to recover—like fields left to fallow—or some hives would move onto another feeding ground that could support them for a while.”

 

“My gods, that’s horrible.” Chakotay’s hoarse whisper voices their collective revulsion. “How could the people who lived there survive?”

 

“Many didn’t, commander,” she replies gently. “Others adapted in various ways—and not always in a good way. We were fortunate that the first group we met were the Athosians. Their leader, Teyla Emmagen, joined my premiere Stargate exploration team, helped us make contact with other planets we could potentially ally or trade with. Teyla and many of the Athosians developed a sixth sense for telling when Wraiths were nearby. Apparently, a couple of centuries ago, a Wraith scientist, in order to make his food tastier, tried some genetic engineering—introduced some Wraith DNA into his test subjects—but it didn’t work quite as he expected. Now, the Wraith are joined telepathically, and what ended up happening is that the test group of Humans developed the ability to sense the Wraith—tap into them telepathically.

 

“Once he realised what was happening, he destroyed his subjects, but not before a number of them escaped through the Stargate, bred with the populations of the planets they gated to. Teyla eventually developed the ability to not simply sense the Wraith’s presence, but telepathically link with individual Wraiths. She could see, hear and experience everything the Wraith was experiencing, but it wasn’t a one-way link. Once the Wraith sensed her presence in his mind, he could do the reciprocal, even go so far as take over her mind and make _her_ do things.

 

“Another group we met consisted of a few thousand children and young adults, barely out of their teens, living in one small area of a large forest. While surveying the seemingly deserted planet, one of our puddlejumpers mysteriously lost power and went down. Dr. McKay found a dampening field that knocked out all technology and went to turn it off, only to discover that it was the children’s defence against the Wraith so they wouldn’t be culled. But it came at a price—in order to keep the population low enough so the children wouldn’t expand their settlements outside the field, whoever set it up also set up a system, almost a religion, whereby when a young person turned twenty-five, they committed suicide ... a ritual sacrifice.”

 

_“Jesus,”_ Tom whispers, face pale as he meets Harry’s shocked gaze; Harry Kim had barely been twenty-one when he’d joined _Voyager’s_ crew.

 

“Then there were the Hoffans, who managed to carry on three hundred years of biomedical research despite the culls, by hiding caches with copies of every book and piece of information they’d ever acquired,” Elizabeth continues in an almost dispassionate voice. “They were looking for a vaccine against the Wraith feeding enzyme—poison the well, so to speak. My CMO, Dr. Carson Beckett even worked with them for awhile, until they made what they thought was a breakthrough. Despite Carson’s pleas and objections, they went straight to human trials. And although they found that it killed over _fifty percent_ of those who received it, within weeks the Hoffan government put it to a referendum, which resulted in ninety-six percent of the population voting to use the vaccine.

 

“It worked—fifty percent of their population died and the rest were immune to Wraith feeding. But the result was nearly one hundred percent casualty. Once the Wraith found they could no longer feed on the Hoffans, they showed up at Hoff _en masse_ and bombarded the planet—wiped the Hoffans from existence as an object lesson to all those who would get any _ideas_ in that direction.”

 

“Don’t tell me it was all like this!” The Doctor is completely aghast.

 

“No, it wasn’t all like that.” The faraway look in Elizabeth’s green eyes makes Kathryn’s heart ache for her. “Atlantis is indescribable—I could have spent ten lifetimes there and barely scratch the surface; and I know that almost everyone on the expedition felt the same way. I never lost the feeling that every time I turned a corner or simply walked down a corridor of the city—I would find something new ... that something absolutely breathtaking and wondrous was waiting for me. Don’t get me wrong, many times it was a struggle just to survive ... we nearly didn’t make it through our first year, and the Pegasus Galaxy made me lose a lot of my Earth-borne ideals. But the three years I spent in Atlantis were the most extraordinary years of my life.” 

 

#

 

“Captain Janeway,” Mistress Holsomi purrs as she slinks into the conference room of her ship, _Valour’s Price_ , the lead ship in the caravan. A two metre tall Amazon, the Cazenchin matriarch exudes sexuality with every breath ... every step she takes, and is well aware of it. “You have returned—and who have you brought for me today?” she asks, walking past them with felinesque grace and without a second glance.

 

Kathryn knows this is deliberate; Holsomi must save face before the assembled Traders Council, and she, Kathryn, must do everything to help her. Looking at all the unfriendly—if not downright hostile—faces, she knows that if the matriarch loses control of the situation, it can only end in weapons fire against _Voyager_.

 

“Mistress Holsomi, may I present _Voyager’s_ Ambassador and Chief Negotiator, Dr. Elizabeth Weir.”

 

“Another one!” The disgust on the young Cazenchin male’s face is obvious. “First Chakotay, then you, now her—you’ve kept us waiting two days for _this_? What is there to _negotiate_?”

 

“My apologies, Mistress Holsomi,” Elizabeth says; she deliberately ignores the young man. “I have been indisposed since Captain Janeway and I were rescued from the Fen’Domar. It has only been in the last day that I have felt strong enough to undertake my duties.”

 

“Two of you were taken?” another voice boomed—this time a large female standing directly behind Holsomi. “Commander Chakotay made no mention of this—only that the Captain was kidnapped.”

 

“Tell me, Mistress Kalona,” Elizabeth continues, surprising Kathryn with how quick a study she was with identifying individual Cazenchin. “Would you have allowed such information to leak out, even among your friends? Admitting to the capture of our Captain is one thing—we needed her returned; the _ship_ needed her returned. But admitting that he was less than an experienced negotiator ...”

 

“Even the most inexperienced child has more sense than to do that,” Kalona finishes with a sudden smile.

 

“And the reason Commander Chakotay was willing to pay such a high price,” another male, Radan, murmurs thoughtfully.

 

Elizabeth says nothing, allowing them to draw their own conclusions. Kathryn marvels at the way she plays the room, and regrets that she didn’t go to her earlier when things had started to heat up.

 

“I still see nothing to be negotiated,” the first Cazenchin man continues derisively. “The resources on that planet rightly belong to _us_!”

 

“Be quiet, Sardo,” Kalona orders. “I think it is in our interest to hear what Mistress Elizabeth has to say.”

 

Kathryn’s eyes widen at Kalona’s address to Elizabeth; the title _Mistress_ in this matriarchal culture is a very prestigious one—even she is always _Captain_ here.

 

Her friend treats the title with the sober ceremony it requires; she bows formally, her right hand over her heart. “Thank you, Mistress Kalona, Mistress Holsomi, for your kindness.” Lifting her gaze again, she addresses Holsomi directly.

 

“Mistress Holsomi, _Voyager_ will uphold our previous trade agreement to the letter. We will mine the agreed upon ores in the agreed quantities; that is _not_ negotiable.” As faces start to darken at her seeming intransigence and the first rumblings of discord begin, she continues in the same measured tones. “However, we are not unsympathetic towards the situation our friends, the Cazenchin Traders, find themselves in due to unforeseen circumstances and through no fault of their own. As such, we have a new proposition to place before this Council.”

 

Holsomi’s gaze is wary, but she nods her assent to Elizabeth. “Please continue, Mistress Elizabeth.”

 

“Thank you, Mistress Holsomi. In my culture, we have a saying, _‘time is money’_ and I believe that given the Cazenchin Traders’ long history of plying the trade routes in this sector of space, this axiom is even more applicable.” Again, the background voices rose above the occasional whisper, and Kathryn got a sense that most of the Traders agreed. “Then what if we trade with you a piece of technology that would not only help to take some of the load—required to run your other shipboard systems—off your warp cores, but in doing so, make your ships faster and considerably shorten the _time_ you spend getting to your ports of call.”

 

A collective gasp seems to suck all the air from the room as they stare at Elizabeth in shock.

 

“Our engineers tell me that with this generator taking the primary load of your environmental and other systems from the warp core, your ships would be able to take advantage of your propulsion systems to the fullest of their designed capacity—a sustainable warp velocity of warp 7.5, with a top velocity of warp 8.75 or even warp 9 for a short time.”

 

After a few moments, Holsomi breaks the dead silence. “I thought the rules of your Federation forbade the trading of your technology.” Her voice is as hard and angry as her eyes.

 

“That is true,” Elizabeth replies placidly. “The Prime Directive holds for all Federation, or Federation-enhanced technologies, which includes most of the technology on _Voyager_ , and it is a directive we _will_ adhere to. But this generator is categorically _not_ Federation technology—it’s a rather _recent_ acquisition,” she says smiling at the startled look on the Cazenchin leader’s face.

 

“Why was this not mentioned before?” the young man, Sardo, shouts angrily. “No mention was made of other technologies that could be traded! And every item we asked about, Commander Chakotay would only say that it was covered by your _Prime Directive_.”

 

“Perhaps because everything you _saw_ was probably Federation technology,” Elizabeth counters smoothly. “Let’s face it, _Voyager_ may be an explorer ship, but she is first and foremost a ship in the Federation’s _Starfleet_ —which is also a _military_ organization.”

 

“What has that to do with anything?”

 

“What she is saying, Sardo,” Mistress Holsomi says, anger evident in her voice, “is that _Voyager_ is crewed mainly by _soldiers_ , who have soldier mentalities. There are scientists on board, but they do not make the decisions regarding the ship and its technologies, the soldiers do.”

 

Mistress Kalona chuckles shrewdly. “And what soldier do you know of who would willingly give up any advantage or technology—especially new technology that they haven’t yet had time to implement on their ship perhaps? It is against their nature.”

 

“My engineers have been studying it in their spare time, but at the moment, _Voyager_ doesn’t really need it—our warp and auxiliary power systems are more than adequate to keep the ship at a sustainable velocity of warp 7.5 or higher,” Kathryn explains. “Of course, given how far we are from home, we’re always looking at ways to get there faster and conserve fuel where we can. We’ve recently determined that this new generator is compatible with _Voyager’s_ technology and will be able take some of the load off our warp core. In the last two days, my engineers have had the time to start preparing for the integration of the generators into our replicator systems, airponics bay, mess and lounge areas, and as backup generators to those that have autonomous power systems, such as the environmental systems, main computer, sickbay and the holodecks.”

 

“Where did you acquire this technology?” Mistress Holsomi demands; she’s clearly impressed and her eyes flash with definite desire. “What powers it?”

 

“We acquired it from a small group of explorers called the Tau’ri,” Elizabeth replies smoothly, using the Goa’uld name for Terran humans; Kathryn marvels at the ease with which she’s able to dissemble, yet still tell the truth—mostly. “They were headed elsewhere in a very different direction, but our captain and crew were able to do a great service for their leader. In gratitude, she bestowed this gift.”

 

Kathryn hands Holsomi a PADD with the first generation device’s specifications and schematics. “It’s an autonomous generator that uses refined veroxi-transquartzite as a power source.”

 

“But that’s useless slag!” one of the other councillors shouts in outrage.

 

“One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure, Mistress Asara,” Elizabeth says sagely. “This is another truism my people have come to know quite well.”

 

“That was not one of the ores Commander Chakotay included in the trade contract,” the belligerent Sardo says suspiciously.

 

Elizabeth simply stares at him, arms crossed about her chest, one elegant eyebrow lifted—looking remarkably like a teacher regarding an exceptionally dim-witted student.

 

“It’s _slag_ , Sardo.” The older man, Radan, doesn’t add _‘you idiot’_ , but they all hear it nonetheless. “It’s as common as dirt—why would they waste precious tonnage on something they can pick up in practically any system? All it would have done was alert us—make us suspicious that they were hiding something that required that _slag_.” He smiled admiringly at Elizabeth. “I for one would be very interested in acquiring this technology—and so would everyone in this room I would wager—provided it can be proven safe to use and that we can maintain it.”

 

“That goes without saying, Trader Radan,” Elizabeth replies, returning his smile. “And once you have had a chance to study the schematics and specifications, I have no doubt you will be quite pleased.”

 

“And what would you want in exchange for this new transaction?” Holsomi asks, shrewd eyes narrowing.

 

Elizabeth’s smile becomes a full-blown grin. “Only to be allowed to add the ore to the list of minerals we’re already mining, Mistress Holsomi,” she replies to their surprise. “Believe me, if Lieutenant Commander Torres doesn’t have to close down this mining operation and set up another in just a couple of weeks, everyone on _Voyager_ will be much happier for it,” she quips and there are chuckles all around; no doubt all of them had at least heard about B’Elanna’s formidable temper. “Of course we would also mine and refine enough for you—same percentage split as before; seventy-thirty.” Stepping closer to the alien woman, she continues as she holds her gaze. “Our alliance with the Cazenchin Traders is very important to the Federation; we will do all we can to maintain and honour it.”

 

“Your Federation is very far away, Mistress Elizabeth, Mistress Kathryn.”

 

“Our Federation is wherever we are, Mistress Holsomi,” Kathryn replies with equal solemnity and, placing her right hand over her heart, bows to the Cazenchin leader.

 

#

 

“That was completely amazing,” Kathryn says for what must be the fifth time since transporting back to _Voyager_. “I can’t believe how you brought them around so quickly and made it seem so easy—they were eating out of your hands.”

 

They are leaving the turbo-lift after Kathryn’s impromptu tour of the ship. On returning, they had immediately been summoned— _”Borg don’t do requests,”_ Kathryn had said laughing indulgently—to astrometrics for a briefing with Annika Hansen regarding _Voyager’s_ upcoming route, long-ranged sensor scans and the possibility of regaining contact with Earth using something called the Midas Array. Then it was on to Stellar Cartography for a briefing with Meghan Delaney on all matter of stellar phenomena, as well as a request to study a binary pulsar they would be encountering in a couple of weeks, and finally, to main engineering to meet with B’Elanna for a progress report and for Kathryn to thoroughly examine the prototype _naquadah_ generator.

 

Watching Kathryn with her officers has been an eye-opener for Elizabeth—and with B’Elanna especially, it was something to behold. The conversation had gone straight over her head, but it held the same quality as watching Rodney McKay enthusiastically discussing some new piece of technology or theory with Dr. Zalenka, except without the Atlantis chief scientist’s overweening ego and cutting snark.

 

There was an easy camaraderie and respect that spoke of a decade of fellowship and friendship between captain and chief engineer; Elizabeth watched the free-flow of ideas with awe as they finished each other’s sentences, moved easily from theory to practical reality. It suddenly occurred to her that Kathryn truly knew all this stuff—this science of _subspace flow-fields_ , _sub-atomic resonance capacitance_ and _warp bubbles_ —which sounded, even to her trained linguist’s ear, like they’d veered into an alien language that had been so poorly translated into English, it had been rendered incomprehensible.

 

It strikes her that Mistress Holsomi’s statement— _that_ Voyager _is crewed by soldiers with soldier mentalities_ —is a patently untrue stereotype, although she’d taken pains to encourage it. Judging by Kathryn and B’Elanna, she is willing to bet that each crew member was far more than just _a soldier_.

 

She understands now why she remembered Tom Paris’ kind face floating over her in sickbay, or why, when she’d asked the computer for Celes Tal’s location—depending on the day, it had indicated that the young Bajoran could be found on duty in engineering almost as often as in astrometrics, where she’d said she was assigned. Furthermore, Sarnik, the Vulcan-Romulan hybrid served both in sickbay and as a pilot during gamma shift; Samantha Wildman and Juliet Jurot, a Betazoid-human hybrid, were both sickbay attendants and science officers, while Telora Olawende, the Vulcan-Human hybrid, served in security almost as often as she worked in the science labs.

 

_And what is Kathryn?_ The thought suddenly rises in her mind as she realises she hasn’t responded to the other woman’s admiration for her diplomatic skills.

 

“No more amazing than a captain who is also a scientist and an engineer, and not so bad at diplomacy herself,” she quips.

 

Kathryn starts, blue eyes widening at the compliment; a deep blush stains her neck and cheeks, giving her an adorably _shy_ look. She seems tongue-tied for a moment, and then chuckles, “ _Touché_ , Dr. Weir, _touché_.”

 

After walking in silence for another few moments, Kathryn stops at a doorway. Her hand hovers over the key-pad for a beat before tapping in a code; the door opens.

 

“Well, today was a good day,” she says quietly. “What do you say we celebrate with a late supper?”

 

There is an air of expectation between them; Elizabeth wonders if Kathryn feels it also. She smiles, replying, “I’d like that,” before following the other woman into her quarters.

 

#

 

Kathryn’s quarters are just as Elizabeth has imagined the captain’s quarters would be; neat and uncluttered. She understands this from her time in Atlantis; though it is ostensibly her private area, like her ready-room, it is still an extension of the _Captain_ … the leader. However, although Elizabeth is glad to see the little touches of home, she would love to know where _Kathryn_ lurks; perhaps behind the closed door to her left, which she surmises leads to the bedroom.

 

In Atlantis, it had been the same for her. _Dr. Weir_ was front and centre almost 24/7 in any part of the city—her ever-present headset always tuned to the pulse of the city … in her office and even in her quarters. _Elizabeth_ dwelt in her notebooks of translations, poetry and little doodles … in the occasional movie nights with John and his team, when she allowed herself to let her hair down … on the balconies she explored and catalogued with delight on her _‘slow’_ days … in the south tower, which housed one room with a mirrored wall where she could go in the dead of night, simply turn on some music as loud as she wanted, and _dance_.

 

A hand touches her arm lightly. “Elizabeth?”

 

She meets Kathryn’s puzzled gaze and realises the other woman has been speaking while she’s been caught up in her own thoughts.

 

“Any preferences?” It’s a query she’s obviously made before.

 

Elizabeth shakes her head as if to clear it. “Sorry, just zoned out for a minute there. No, I don’t have any preferences really. I’m fine with whatever you’re having.” As Kathryn smiles and turns to the replicator, she continues, “I’ve been trying different cuisines with different people since I’ve been here—though I had to draw the line at the _gahg_ Tom Paris tried to feed me.”

 

Kathryn laughs as she removes a bowl of rice-like grain from the machine. “I’d imagine that B’Elanna drew the line there as well!”

 

“Definitely!” Elizabeth smiles as she remembers the disgust for the wriggling worm-like _gahg_ on half-Klingon’s face. “She doesn’t seem very comfortable with her Klingon heritage at times, though Tom seems to have embraced it wholeheartedly.”

 

Kathryn gives a low chuckle. “B’Elanna has a love-hate relationship with her Klingon side,” she explains removing another dish from the replicator. “And Tom genuinely loves B’Elanna, Klingon side and all—knows it’s an important part of her and Miral. So regardless of B’Elanna’s ambivalence, he’s taken it on himself to make sure Miral knows both her Klingon and Human heritages. Besides, he actually likes _gahg_ —apparently acquired a taste for it and a lot of other alien dishes years ago, probably when his father was expected to entertain important dignitaries.”

 

“His father?” Elizabeth asks as she puts the cutlery Kathryn has replicated in their proper place settings on either side of the dinner plates.

 

“Admiral Owen Paris,” Kathryn replies, gesturing for Elizabeth to take the seat on her right before settling in her own chair at the head of the table. “He started out as part of the diplomatic branch of Starfleet back when Tom was a boy—was part of the science and exploration corps when I first got to know him back at the Academy and then on my first voyage. It involved quite a few first contacts. Right now he serves as the head of Starfleet Operations.”

 

“That’s quite a legacy to live up to,” Elizabeth says soberly.

 

“Yes. It took me longer than it should have to see that the officer, who had been such a mentor to me at the Academy and as a young officer, wasn’t perhaps the _man_ Tom needed to be a _father_ to him.” Kathryn’s voice is quiet, wistful. “Anyway,” she continues, shaking out her napkin. “Their relationship has grown much stronger in the last few years, and Owen dotes on B’Elanna and Miral already.”

 

Elizabeth remembers Annika Hansen’s report. “Right, you have contact with Starfleet sometimes through the Midas Array?”

 

Kathryn nods, smiling as she pours a sparkling blue beverage from a long, thin carafe into tall, narrow champagne flutes. “Well, help yourself—this is called _Zynth_ , a ceremonial wine of the Ostalzi. We met them about a year ago—lovely people, if a bit overly religious for my tastes at least. It is the only beverage they are allowed to partake in with _zynkanti_ —strangers.”

 

Elizabeth nods as she helps herself to some of the grain dish; it’s mixed with vegetables and she can identify bits of red and orange bell peppers, celery and zucchini.

 

“The grain is called _nuusa_ , a Betazoid grain, while the meat is actually good old-fashioned Terran turkey, sliced and served on thin slices of _noakin_ root. The purple sauce is tulaberry compote, but I can replicate some cranberry sauce if you like.”

 

“No, that’s fine,” Elizabeth assures her, surprised at the note of anxiousness in Kathryn’s voice. “I want to try new things.”

 

She starts with the _nuusa_ , which has a slight almond-like flavour that contrasts beautifully with the crisp, raw Terran vegetables. “There’s a slight flavour of something like raspberries and lemons that really compliments the almond flavour of the grain,” she says in surprise.

 

Kathryn chuckles. “Actually it’s the _nuusa_ grain itself. The almond flavour comes from the outer coating, while the aromatic raspberry and lemon flavours comes from the inner kernel. Its leaves are sometimes used as a substitute for lemon rind.”

 

The slice of turkey breast is tender and succulent—not at all dry—and tulaberry tastes like a fusion of many different berries, yet like nothing she’s ever tasted and it doesn’t overwhelm the flavour of the turkey, which cranberry sauce is apt to do at times. But it’s the _noakin_ root that really surprises her. In texture, it’s a bit like water-chestnut slices, and the taste is sweeter and a bit nutty, but like walnuts rather than peanuts.

 

The entire effect together with the turkey and berry sauce is nothing short of heavenly. She takes another bite and can’t help but sigh contentedly as she chews, savouring the blends and bursts of the different flavours and textures in her mouth.

 

Kathryn chuckles again, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “I take it you like it?”

 

Elizabeth feels a small flush of embarrassment at her very vocal response to the food, but the feeling doesn’t linger.

 

“Mmm … it’s heavenly,” she manages after swallowing. “But then you knew it would be.”

 

“My mother’s recipe.”

 

“Ah—you see, now _that’s_ what I don’t understand,” Elizabeth muses, her own impish sense of humour coming to the fore. “If it all exists in your computer’s memory as recipes and molecular patterns, how in the world did you manage to burn an _entire_ pot roast?”

 

Kathryn chokes on a mouthful of _nuusa_ and hurriedly coughs into her napkin, face turning beet red and eyes watering. Elizabeth can’t help but laugh, although with Kathryn’s continued coughing, some of that mirth turns to concern and she leans over to pat her friend on the back.

 

After a few moments, the coughing fit subsides and Kathryn takes a sip of wine. Feeling a little awkward, Elizabeth removes her hand and asks in concern, “Are you okay?”

 

“Fine,” is the hoarse reply, “I suppose Tom couldn’t wait to tell you about that.” The sheepish smile on Kathryn’s face is a relief.

 

“Actually, it was Tal, who had it from Harry, who in turn got it from his friend Lindsay, apparently,” she chuckles before taking a bite of her light, fluffy dinner roll, which she’s smothered in butter. Usually she’s very aware of fat content, cholesterol and other dietary pit traps discovered in the Twentieth Century, but tonight she doesn’t care. Tonight, a dinner roll this decadent deserves to be drenched in real butter.

 

Kathryn mutters something unintelligible, prompting Elizabeth to laugh even harder at her absolutely indignant—and rather adorable—expression. “Incinerate _one_ little pot roast,” she rants, “and they brand you incompetent in the kitchen.”

 

“Actually, I think the phrase used was ‘too incompetent to boil water’, _Captain Fire Hazard_ ,” Elizabeth teases. “And the general consensus is that the only thing you can be trusted to replicate safely is coffee, because given the quantities you consume, its molecular pattern has etched itself indelibly into the replicator circuitry.”

 

“I see that my crew has _way_ too much time on their hands,” she comments dryly. “I’m going to have to look into that. But what about you—I know you said you can cook. What do you like to make?”

 

Elizabeth laughs. “Strictly meat and potatoes kind of stuff that I learned from my mother,” she replies. “Staples like how to cook steak, pork, chicken and fish properly. She considered knowing how to make the perfect meatloaf with mushroom gravy an essential skill. Picked up a few pasta dishes here and there; I can make a mean veggie lasagne, fettuccini Alfredo with chicken, three-cheese tortellini primavera—provided I can get the tortellini already stuffed. I never did learn the fine art of pasta making. Soups are quick and fun, salads are fairly easy—many have nothing to burn,” she teases and Kathryn laughs, snorting delicately as she swats Elizabeth’s arm.

 

“But what I really like to make are desserts—especially _anything_ with chocolate,” she continues. “Had a fling with a sous chef in Paris one summer—taught me a few _things_ both in and out of the kitchen.”

 

Elizabeth looks for and catches the undeniable flare of interest and _desire_ in Kathryn’s eyes at her flirtatious statement. It’s gone a moment later—when the captain pushes to the fore and changes the subject to setting up a ambassadorial/first contact department, as well as choosing assistants to help her—but it was there.

 

#

 

“Target their weapons’ array! Take them out!” Janeway orders as _Voyager_ is rocked by a series of explosions.

 

Chakotay looks up from the ops display; Kim is lying unconscious at his feet.  “A third Fen’Domar ship is coming out of the nebula,” he reports. “Captain, I think now is the time to try our little surprise.”

 

She regards him gravely for a moment and then nods.  “Do it!” she orders taking her seat.

 

Chakotay relinquishes ops to the replacement officer and returns to the first officer’s seat as two security officers, the on-duty field medics for the shift, tend to Harry’s injuries and get him ready for transport to sickbay. 

 

“Chakotay to engineering—squeeze play! When all three ships are within twenty thousand kilometres, vent the plasma.”

 

“Aye sir!”

 

“Tuvok,” he continues. “Ignite the plasma on my mark using a photon torpedo—one quarter yield. Paris, stand by to take us out of here at maximum warp.”

 

“With that concentration of plasma, the best I’ll be able to do without setting our tailpipes on fire is warp 6.5,” Paris says frantically getting his course plotted.

 

“It’ll have to do,” Chakotay replies meeting Janeway’s gaze.  She gives him a confident smile as she leans forward studying the forward view screen. Chakotay studies his tactical plot and notes the plasma discharge he’s been waiting for. 

 

_“Fire!”_

 

A photon torpedo hurtles toward the enemy ships as _Voyager_ leaps to warp. The resulting explosion blossoms with the brightness of a nova, destroying one ship and severely crippling the other two.

 

“Well done, commander,” Kathryn says with a grin as the bridge lights return to normal.  He nods and returns his attention to his display as she rises to survey the damage.  “Report,” she orders above the frantic activity to restore the bridge.

 

#

 

Chakotay sits on a bench in the airponics bay contemplating a pot of yellow roses. He’s been on duty over twenty-four hours, they all have been.  The ship has taken a beating, but a lot of the damage is minimal thanks to the skill of Torres and her engineers. 

 

They are now hidden in orbit around the third moon of a gas giant planet effecting repairs.  Hopefully, the ionic interference would keep them hidden from the Fen’Domar.  Kathryn had dismissed the senior staff over an hour ago with the admonishment to get some rest—but as tired as he is, he finds it difficult to get to sleep at 1000 hours in the morning, especially since Annika is regenerating. Therefore, he’d gone for a walk in the hopes of clearing his mind enough to get some sleep and had ended up in airponics, contemplating yellow roses and other flowers.

 

The sound of the bay doors opening startles him and he looks up from his little corner near the port wall. Through the rows of plants he sees Elizabeth Weir advancing towards the small stand of fleshy shoots that looked like bull-rushes.  She kneels in front of them and begins pruning the branches from the central stalk of each plant and placing them in her basket after cutting off the large brown terminal fruit from each branch. 

 

The stalks are used in a variety of vegetable dishes, and although she’s been on board for a relatively short time, she’s delighted the crew with tarts and cakes made from the rich, sweet fruit.

 

Suddenly, she drops the pruning knife and stares down at the plants, wrapping her arms around herself and sobbing quietly as she shivers uncontrollably.  There was almost a palpable aura of terror emanating from her shaking form. Chakotay studies her face with its high cheekbones and sharp-cut features; she is frightened to death and he realises with a start that this is the first time _Voyager_ has been in battle since she came on board. 

 

After a few moments, Elizabeth seems to get a hold of her emotions, drying her eyes and moving away to gather some broad leafy vegetables.  For the first time since the woman came on board with Kathryn, he realises how isolated she must feel.  She probably hasn’t had much chance to talk to Kathryn since the Fen’Domar attacks had begun three days ago, after they’d parted ways with the Cazenchin.  Once they’d realised that the Fen’Domar were actively looking for _Voyager_ and had set a trap to capture them, they knew that going to Tontrai—continuing their course in the company of the Cazenchin—would have only put the traders in further danger. They’d hoped to get across the boarder into the Mija Confederation without alerting the Fen’Domar, but no such luck.

 

Kathryn had left the bridge only two or three times in the last two days, preferring to take her meals and naps in the ready room.  However, he’d accompanied her back to her quarters—with the admonishment to follow her own orders and get some rest—before continuing on to the airponics bay.

 

Elizabeth has probably been in the mess hall since early in the morning, preparing meals for those just going on and getting off duty.  Now, she appears to be collecting food for lunch; she looks scared and exhausted, but continues to do her job despite it. 

 

He realizes suddenly that he’s relegated Elizabeth Weir to the category of _“Kathryn’s friend”_ and for some reason he hasn’t bothered to get to know the woman at all … reached out to her as he’s done on other occasions when they’ve picked up passengers. This disturbs him somewhat and he also realises that he’s never really thought about how much she’s contributed in the short time she’s been onboard. Engineering—in fact, most of _Voyager’s_ departments seem re-energised now, frantically and enthusiastically looking into ways to incorporate _naquadah_ -based technology into Federation technology.

 

His sudden movement as he changes position alerts her to his presence, and her head snaps up as she rises and scans about for his presence.  Chakotay steps out of his shadowed corner and moves towards her.

 

“I’m sorry, Dr. Weir, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says quietly.

 

She composes herself quickly and offers a small smile.  “It is alright Commander Chakotay.  I ... I was just gathering lunch.  I am sorry to disturb you,” she finishes softly as she picks up the baskets.

 

“You weren’t,” he answers, taking one of them from her.  “I was just heading back to my quarters.  I always go for a walk to unwind after battle.”  Chakotay follows her out of the garden.  “How are you doing?” he asks as they turn into the corridor.

 

“I am doing fine now ... since the battle ended,” she replies looking at him uncertainly.  “Is it always like this?”

 

“I’m afraid so,” he answers quietly. “In fact it can get a whole lot worse.”

 

She nods with a solemn expression as they enter the turbolift. “I guess I’m not really used to it anymore,” she says softly, her eyes distant as if looking at something unimaginably far away. “In Atlantis I was, but not anymore.”

 

#

 

“Report,” Kathryn barks entering the briefing room and settling in the chair at the head of the table.

 

“None of the Fen’Domar ships seem to be capable of sustaining above warp 7.5 for any length of time, captain,” Tuvok replies quietly.  “However, they are as formidable as the Cazenchin—and our own intelligence—have indicated when it comes to their shielding and weaponry. Offsetting that are our shields and our own weaponry—their quantum missiles appear to be ten percent weaker than our photon torpedoes, while our quantum torpedoes are vastly superior, but we must keep in mind that we have only seventeen at the moment. Their energy weapons are comparable however, although with Lieutenant Torres’ modifications to our shields, we ought to be able to withstand their phaser fire.  The weapon that will be most difficult to defend against is the subspace plasma lance.”

 

“Captain, I think that once we learn the subspace frequency of the lance, we may be able to use the deflector to compensate,” Seven interjects and Kathryn nods—that means they had to survive a hit from it at least once.

 

“So our greatest asset might just be our speed—at warp 8.5 it would take approximately six days to get across at the narrowest point,” Kathryn continues thoughtfully. “But, if we head straight for the boarder with the Mija Federation through the Weyhana Sector, it would be the easiest way to put the Fen’Domar Empire behind us. I think we can shave some time off that by going to warp 9—”

           

“I’m not sure about that,” Chakotay says with a rueful smile.  “You’re forgetting the phased mines all along the boarder with the Mija Federation,” he reminds her to her chagrin.

 

“Not necessarily, commander,” Paris says with a grin.  “What about using the _Sunbirds_ as mine-sweepers? Their sensors are equipped to detect minute discontinuities in space-time as an offshoot of the metaphasic shield tech we’ve equipped them with.  It’s a similar type of phasing isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, of course!” Kathryn yelps smiling in surprise as she remembers the small two-man fighters Paris and Kim have developed.  “How many of _Voyager’s_ crew have been certified on the new fighters?”

 

“As far as piloting goes, Ensign Tabor, Ensign Bristow, Jenny Delaney and Lieutenant Ghorima are probably the most ready,” Paris replies promptly.  “Gunnery is a little better—there Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Ramirez top out the class, followed by Ayala, Olawende, Marsters and Gerron.  Tabor is best with Chakotay and Crewman Marsters, while Freddy Bristow and Jenny Delaney work best with Ayala and Olawende respectively, and Ghorima is best with Ramirez and Olawende.  All the pilots are about the same with Gerron.”

 

“Alright, work on integrating them into squads of two in the simulations,” Kathryn orders as Paris enters it into his PADD.  “I want to be able to relieve the sweepers when needed.  We’ll work it with two fighters running sweeps for the hemisphere of space ahead of Voyager, one taking the port quadrant and the other starboard.”

 

As Paris nods, Harry chimes in, “We should also tie the _Sunbirds_ into _Voyager’s_ sensor net so we can anticipate their moves and react accordingly.”

 

“Good idea, Harry,” Kathryn replies encouragingly.  “Let’s see if we can get through this without engaging them the Fen’Domar again.”

 

#

 

“I guess it was wishful thinking on my part that we could get away without having to engage them again,” Kathryn says ruefully as _Voyager_ races towards the orange K-type star devoid of a planetary system.  She meets and holds Elizabeth’s gaze for a moment, before returning her gaze to her command console.

 

Despite the relative crudity of their weapons in comparison to _Voyager_ , the Fen’Domar ships are still hellishly effective _en masse_. The ship bucks again beneath her and Elizabeth hangs onto her seat in the first officer’s chair. She’d been on the bridge, finalising their preliminary negotiations with the Mija Boarder Authority for _Voyager’s_ entrance into their territory when the Fen’Domar attack came.

 

“Bridge to engineering,” Kathryn calls down the comm.  “Re-route power to reinforce the aft shields.”

 

“All ready on it!” B’Elanna growls and Elizabeth can hear the fine edge of tension in her voice.  This is the first time Tom will be testing the fighters in battle. “Bringing shield layering on line ... now.”

 

“Dropping to one quarter impulse,” Chakotay reports from the helm, his fingers dancing on the console as they swing into the star’s gravity well. Elizabeth closes her eyes briefly as the star flares brightly for a moment on the forward viewscreen.

 

“ _Sunbirds_ away,” Tuvok says, his voice calm as the small ships plunged into the star.

 

Elizabeth spares Paris and his teams a brief prayer of good luck, knowing he’d wanted more time to practice before being needed in battle.  Paris wouldn’t have them do anything fancy, but still—

 

“Shield layering complete, captain,” Torres brisk voice reports from Kathryn’s command console.  “All shields reinforced to 250%—it’s the best I could do without the modifications for the Soliton system being in place.”

 

“No apologies B’Elanna,” Kathryn replies, sparing her a smile.

 

“ _Sunbirds_ report they’re fully fuelled on solar plasma and ready for engagement,” Tuvok continues unemotionally.

 

“We’re being hailed by one _Ondoral’fen_ Kor’voh, captain,” Kim says with quiet urgency.

           

“On screen,” Kathryn orders as she rises and moves quite deliberately to stand in the middle of her bridge. Tiny as she is, she still projects a commanding figure. Elizabeth fights the urge to shrink back into her chair.

 

The Fen’Domar commander glares at _Voyager’s_ captain in disgust and she returns it with her own steady steely gaze. 

 

“Captain Janeway,” he sneers, the universal translator doing a more than adequate job of conveying his contempt.  “We have you surrounded; you are outnumbered ten to one and five more ships will be here shortly.  Surrender your ship now and we just might consider making you and your degenerate females ... _concubines_.”

 

_Concubine_ ... another euphemism for _whore_.

 

“I don’t think so, _Ondoral’fen_ Kor’voh,” Kathryn replies in a diamond-hard voice.  “We’d rather _die_ than be Fen’Domar _slaves_. Hasn’t centuries of tangling with the Mija and even the Cazenchin Matriarchs taught you anything about female leaders?” she asks with an equal measure of contempt; his face goes nearly purple with apoplexy.

 

“You will pay for your insolence and the death of my nephew,” he growls furiously. “I will see to it myself.”

 

“If you live long enough,” she returns coldly and cuts communication.  “Janeway to Paris—they can bring down your shields if they hit you with that plasma lance, so you need to come out fast and hard with evasive manoeuvring, deflectors jamming.”

 

“Understood, captain,” Paris answers in a quietly unyielding voice, which reminds Elizabeth of tone of John’s voice during battle. 

 

“For the honour of _Voyager_!” a youthful voice screams over the comm and Kathryn can only gape in surprise as the other team members answer as one.

           

“For the honour of _Voyager_!” they roar.

 

“All right boys and girls, let’s go kick some Fen’Domar butt,” Paris quips, barking a harsh laugh.

 

Kathryn looks at Tuvok in askance.  “Their new battle-cry, captain,” he says in his most _non-sotto_ voice as she grins and shakes her head.

 

“You might have warned me Tuvok.”

 

“I will remember that should they ever decide to change it, captain,” he replies as the Fen’Domar’s first volley of quantum missiles impacts their shields. The aliens have learned fairly quickly that their nuclear missiles were like mosquitoes against _Voyager’s_ shields, and since then, every ship has gone after her with everything else. For the last two days, there had been no less than six ships hounding her at any one time. No sooner would they use their superior speed to leave one group behind, when another would take their place, intercepting _Voyager_ with ships drawn from the Mija boarder.

 

“Thanks,” Kathryn says dryly as she takes her seat again. She spares Elizabeth another quick smile before returning her attention to her console.  “All right Tuvok, they seem to have settled on a box pattern—I don’t think they understand quite yet that the star is our friend.  _Voyager_ will take Alpha, Beta, Charlie, Delta and Zulu designated targets, split the rest between the _Sunbirds_ —tell them to aim for the lance and phaser banks of each ship.”

 

“Understood Captain,” Tuvok acknowledges, passing her orders.

 

“Engage at will!” She orders as another volley of missiles rocks _Voyager_.

 

Watching the bridge officers as they work together like a precision machine—no, a well honed Roman Legion, for they are a weapon of flesh and bone and duratanium—Elizabeth realizes that _Voyager_ herself has become an angry wolf on the edge of a snare, baring her teeth at the hunters stalking her. The Fen’Domar ships all target _Voyager_ at once, trying to encircle her and drive her into the star. 

 

She feels the crew’s anticipation as they all silently will the enemy to get closer— _Voyager_ will get hurt, but Tuvok is hitting them at least as hard as they are hitting the ship.  Elizabeth watches the two ships flanking _Voyager_ on both port and starboard, and the two from the top and bottom close to take their triumphant shot with their short-ranged subspace plasma lances.

 

“Paris now!” Kathryn orders savagely as Tuvok changes tactics to concentrate _Voyager’s_ fire on the five ships directly ahead.

 

The _Sunbirds_ scream from the star, pouring on fire on the Fen’Domar ships that have sailed blithely into Kathryn’s deadly trap.  Absently, Elizabeth watches the fighters’ lightening fast manoeuvres.

 

One enemy ship vanishes in a violent boil of light as one last fighter bursts from the star, hurling the bright ball of a stellar core fragment directly into their teeth. As that fighter races back to the safety of the star, the other Fen’Domar ships are bombarded with fire from the rest of the hellishly fast fighters. 

 

“Chakotay, course 4-3-4 mark 7!” Kathryn orders.  “Evasive pattern omega-3.”

 

“Aye captain,” he acknowledges entering her orders into the helm.  “Course 4-3-4 mark 7, evasive pattern omega-3.”

 

“Mr. Kim, target Foxtrot’s shields are fluctuating in sector delta 4,” she observes calmly. “Hit them with a ten second deflector blast in that spot—it should send them on course for the star and take them out of the equation.”

 

“Understood captain,” Kim replies as _Voyager_ is rocked again. 

 

Elizabeth watches with satisfaction as Tuvok’s torpedoes take out another enemy ship, and then another skitters out of formation as Kim sends them careening towards a fiery death, because she is sure the Fen’Domar have no concept of _metaphasic_ shielding. However, _Voyager_ is still taking hits as she shudders violently again.

 

“Captain!” Torres’ voice over the comm is urgent.  “We’ve lost two lateral plasma injector ports in the starboard nacelle—if we take another lance shot like that we could lose the nacelle all together!”

 

“Hard to starboard, Chakotay!” Kathryn orders.

 

Another blast rocks the ship as Chakotay turns their vulnerable starboard flank away from the enemy.  _Voyager_ shudders as two more ships blow up from Tuvok’s and the _Sunbirds’_ combined weapons’ fire. 

 

“The remaining three ships are withdrawing, captain,” Tuvok reports calmly. “The last is caught in the star’s coronosphere—” He is interrupted by a magnificent explosion and _Voyager_ rocked from the force of the blast.  “The remaining ships have gone to warp 2—they are unable to sustain higher warp velocities with the damage they sustained.”

 

“Thanks Tuvok—now, all that remains to be seen is how high a warp velocity _we_ can sustain,” Kathryn says meeting Elizabeth’s gaze with a tired smile. “Order the _Sunbirds_ to fill up their solar plasma reservoirs and head back to the barn.”

 

“Aye captain,” Tuvok acknowledges.

 

“Actually, captain,” Harry Kim said with a soft chuckle.  “It may be any velocity we choose once we’re repaired—” He continues as she looks at him in surprise.  “Annika’s been up to her hacking tricks again,” he laughs as a slow smile spreads over Kathryn’s features.

 

“Janeway to sickbay—Annika, what have you been up to?” she calls in amusement; sickbay was the safest place for the young pregnant woman as well as all of _Voyager’s_ children.

 

“Captain, using the deflector discharge as a carrier for a modulated subspace signal, I have downloaded the specifications of the Fen’Domar weapons’ systems,” the former Borg woman explains simply in that wonderfully uninflected voice. “We now have the subspace frequency for the plasma lance and the phasing specifications for their mines. I have determined that flooding the space ahead of _Voyager_ with warp-phased tetryon particles, emitted from the deflector array, will disrupt the cloaks of those mines in our path, rendering them functionless.”

 

“Good work, Annika,” Kathryn praises with a smile.  “Good work everyone!” 

 

Elizabeth is gratified to see the crew’s tired, but enthusiastic grins. 

 

“All right people, let’s get started on those damage reports,” she says above the good-natured groans.

 

“She _hacked_ their systems?”

 

Kathryn turns her attention to Elizabeth, chuckling softly at her disbelief. “They’re just lucky she wasn’t interested in recording them in their skivvies and broadcasting it across the sector.” The captain’s eyes twinkle merrily. “Her first attempt at hacking involved using a Malon freighter’s own internal sensors to spy on them while we were building the prototype _Delta Flyer_ ; they were building a rival shuttle to try and salvage one of our probes before we could get to it. Needless-to-say, they didn’t win and our Seven _hates_ to lose ... and so do I!”

 

Elizabeth finds Kathryn’s low growl unbearably sexy and has to fight her instinctive reaction to it. “Dinner tonight?” she asks quietly instead.

 

“That would be lovely,” Kathryn replies, favouring her with brilliant smile before returning her attention to Tuvok and the PADD he hands her.

 

#

 

Elizabeth looks up tiredly from sweeping up the last of the dirt from the plants that had fallen over during the last-ditch battle with the Fen’Domar as Voyager raced across the boarder into the Mija Confederation.  It had been fierce and terrifying as she’d remained in medlab two supervising Naomi and the other young children, while Samantha helped treat the wounded in the main sickbay. 

 

As soon as she had been allowed, she’d gone first to the mess hall to make sure everything was still in place and so far, there had only been a few overturned storage bins and fallen pans.  When she’d surveyed the damage to airponics however, she’d nearly cried, but even that was salvageable if she worked fast.  A call to maintenance had netted her a harried department head who had told her that it was a low priority.  Even now she couldn’t believe she’d actually snapped at him and told him he’d better make it a higher priority unless they could eat dilithium crystals and drink warp plasma. 

 

As it came out of her mouth, she’d almost expected the wrath of god to come down on her, but Lieutenant Ramirez had laughed and said he’d see what he could do. Twenty minutes later, Chell had arrived with a small group of crewmen and briskly set about helping to clean up the mess, salvaging what could be replanted and what she would use for meals and preserve for the next few days.  She’d gone back to the mess hall and began to preserve the fruits and pickle the vegetables or freeze dry whatever she didn’t have an immediate recipe for. In between cooking meals and serving them to an exhausted crew, she’s been running down to airponics to see how the plants are catching.  They’ve lost about ten percent, although much of that had been salvageable as windfall.

 

Sighing softly, she feels tired to the bone as she looks around the nearly spotless bay; after this she can mercifully go to bed—it must be getting close to 11:00 p.m. ... 2300 hours in military speak, she reminds herself.  She crouches to pick up the last bit of dirt and sees one of the pollinating beetles on the floor under a shelving unit.  She picks it up and grabbing one of the small containers on the worktable, goes hunting for more escapees—crawling around on her hands and knees plucking them out of odd corners and crevices.  She realises that this will have to be reported to maintenance in case there might be a problem with them gumming up the works.

 

As she rises and heads back to the proper plot of plants for the beetles, she hears a soft sound; the soft, sobbing sound of someone crying.  She stands paralysed by the desolate sound. She didn’t hear the door open or anyone come in, and she doesn’t want to intrude on someone’s privacy, but she can’t just leave them like this either. 

 

_What’s the worse that can happen?  I’ll get slapped down and asked to leave._

 

Elizabeth moves carefully around to the flower garden—not that there are many blossoms tonight—and stops short as she sees Kathryn kneeling by the plot of broken rose bushes. She remembered the yellow roses she’d once seen in the captain’s ready room and knows there’s some significance to them for Janeway. 

 

For a moment, Kathryn looks as fragile as all those dying, faded blossoms she’d swept up and placed in the recycler—the petals falling apart as she touched them.

 

“They’ll bloom again, Kathryn, I promise.”  The words are out of her mouth before she realises it and Janeway’s head snaps up, an expression of horror etched on her face—as if she’d been caught doing something terrible.  She stands up quickly and turns away to wipe her eyes.

 

“I—I didn’t realise anyone was here, Elizabeth,” she said hoarsely.

 

“I was hunting escaped beetles,” she replies lamely holding up the jar.  “I’m sorry I intruded, but it’s difficult to hear someone in pain and not ask if you can help,” she continues softly. “You, everyone has helped me a lot, so I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do to help.”

 

“No Elizabeth, I’ll be fine,” she says taking a breath and turning to face her as she struggles for control.  “Just a few things coming one on top the other ... Noah Lessing was severely injured during the battle—plasma burns to his arms and torso ... damage to his lungs when he breathed in the fumes. We nearly made it through ...” Elizabeth can hear what she doesn’t say; _they nearly made it through without further injuries to her crew_. “I came here to think—” She breaks off with a soft sob and stares down on the twigs, bare of even most of their leaves.

 

“And the roses were the straw that broke the camel’s back,” Elizabeth finishes and Janeway nods sadly.  “Even the hardiest dromedary needs a mouthful of water in the desert every now and then, Kathryn,” she says softly, going towards the other woman on impulse and drawing her into a tight embrace.  She feels the captain tense as she strokes her hair and back, then relax against her as she began to cry softly again.  “You’re not all right, Kathryn.  You need rest and you need your friends to help you, to hold you until this passes. Let’s get you back to your quarters and I’ll call B’Elanna and Sam, all right?  There’s no need for you to be alone like this.”

 

Kathryn pushes against her and moves away, looking ashamed—ashamed for the weakness of needing a hug, human contact.  “I’m sorry Elizabeth,” she says softly.  “I’ll be fine—”

 

“No, you won’t,” Elizabeth counters in an implacable voice.  She looks Janeway directly in the eyes as the captain stares at her in surprise.  “Come, let’s get you presentable—get rid of the worst of the damage, then we’ll go back to your quarters and call your friends.  You can throw me in the brig tomorrow.”

 

Janeway looks at her a moment longer and then laughs softly as she says in a quiet threatening voice, “I just might do that.”  Elizabeth draws a clean basin of water and, as Janeway washed her face, calls maintenance to report the beetles. 

 

“Rogue beetles huh,” Kathryn says with a spark of humour as they leave the airponics bay. “I wonder why that musical group, we were listening to at dinner the other night, called themselves the Beetles—that image couldn’t have helped them much.”

 

Elizabeth laughs at the misconception as they enter the turbolift.  “Not b-e-e-t-l-e-s but b-e-a-t-l-e-s, a play on the word beat as in a musical beat.  Their music was really great—even my generation liked it—the words transcend any era. Along with most of the Motown set, my other favourite band from that era was Simon and Garfunkel—” Suddenly inspired she begins to sing.

 

_A winter’s day_

_In a deep and dark December—_

_I am alone_

_Gazing from my window_

_To the streets below_

_On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow_

_I am a rock;_

_I am an island._

 

She smiles into Kathryn’s tear-filled gaze as the turbolift opens and they walk out into the silent corridor.  “That’s from Simon and Garfunkel; it’s called _“I am a Rock”_. Of course if you don’t want anything quite so depressing there’s always _“Feelin’ Groovy”_ —it’s a little more up tempo.”  She grins at Kathryn and begins a little goofy song and dance to make the other woman laugh.

 

_Slow down, you move too fast_

_Got to make the moment last_

_Kicking down the cobble stones_

_Looking for fun and feelin’ groovy_

_Ta na na na na na_

_Feelin’ groovy_

_Hello lamppost, how you glowing_

_Come to see your flowers growing_

_Ain’t you got no sign for me_

_Tu du du du feelin’ groovy_

_Ta na na na na na_

_Feelin’ groovy_

 

Kathryn laughs hard as Elizabeth executes a little twirl and tips her imaginary top hat. “You do take the cake, Elizabeth,” she says softly.

 

“And you just need to kick down the cobble stones a little more, captain,” Elizabeth said as they walk to Janeway’s quarters.  “I know it’s hard to—but sometimes you just have to say _“Calgon, take me away”_ and slip into a nice hot bubble bath up to your chin for an hour. Barring that, a litre of your favourite ice cream in bed will do quite nicely.”

 

She follows Kathryn into her quarters and turns to her firmly.  “I’m just a bossy little busybody tonight, so why don’t you go get ready for bed—take a shower, relax and I’ll call B’Elanna and Sam—see if they can come over for a half hour—” As Kathryn starts to hesitate, she says quickly, “The Captain of _Voyager_ doesn’t have to make important decisions tonight, Kathryn. Get some rest so you’ll be fresh when you do need to make them.”

 

“All right,” the other woman murmurs tiredly.  As she turns to the bedroom, she stops and looks back gratefully. “Thank you.”

 

Elizabeth feels her emotions tighten in her chest and nods.  “You’re welcome, Kathryn; now skedaddle,” she orders. She watches in concern for a moment as the older woman moves slowly around her bedroom, before moving to the living room to call Torres and Wildman. 

 

As she waits for the other two women, she wonders how Kathryn coped before with the injuries and deaths of her crew. Her guess is that like tonight, she would isolate herself, cry a little and then soldier on.

 

She looks up when the door chimes and calls for it to open.  Torres and Wildman look at her in anxious concern and she smiles.

 

“Where is she?” B’Elanna demands with a fierceness Elizabeth finds wonderful.

 

“In the shower,” she replies as she helps the other women place the items, she’s asked them to bring, on the table.  “I’ve sort of been ordering her around—she seemed ready to drop from sheer exhaustion, and not all of it physical.”

 

Sam and B’Elanna share a look and both chuckle softly.  “We’re going to have to do something about that deceptive exterior of yours, Elizabeth,” Samantha says, removing her uniform to reveal her short, lacy nightgown.  “Thanks for suggesting a slumber party—God, I haven’t done that in years.”

 

“Before I went to Atlantis, my friends and I would use any excuse to have one or go to one—of course we called them “girls’ night in” then,” she laughs as she goes over to the replicator.  “Do you know what flavour ice cream Kathryn would like?”

 

“Give you one guess,” Torres teases, peeling off her pants from over the old-fashioned shortie nightie and matching shorts.

 

“Coffee?”

 

“What else?”

 

“Good Lord,” Elizabeth says shaking her head as she programs up a bowl.  “Well thank goodness the replicators are back on-line—what she needs now is comfort food and Delta Quadrant take-out is not my idea of comfort food no matter how you cook it—”

 

“Well you cook it very well,” Sam chuckles.

 

“Yes she does,” Kathryn agrees from the doorway as she looks at them in surprise while running a towel through her damp hair.  “What’s all this?”

 

“We’re having a slumber party,” Torres mutters.

 

“A what?” she asks in shock.

 

“We’re sleeping over,” Sam said firmly as Elizabeth and B’Elanna laugh.  “Now go put on your nightgown and come have some ice cream, cookies, potato chips, pretzels—and what ever—get thoroughly sick and giggle for half the night before we fall asleep.”

 

Kathryn rolls her suspiciously moist eyes at the ceiling.  “Oh great, now I have three of them to boss me around all night,” she says, disappearing into the bedroom as the others dissolve into hilarity.

 

“Replicate yourself something Elizabeth,” Torres orders grinning.  “If I have to wear this little get-up, so do you.”

 

Elizabeth laughs and goes back to the replicator.  “I can’t imagine there are many Klingons out there tonight wearing shortie nighties with matching panties.”

 

Kathryn low chuckles are infectious as she enters wearing a short peach tunic.  “I think I can see Gawron in one, don’t you B’Elanna?” she asks and picks up the bowl of ice cream as Elizabeth goes into the bedroom to change.

 

After she slips the short cotton shift over her head, she checks her reflection in the mirror and has the unaccountable feeling that someone is watching her. Suddenly, her reflection seems to be that of a stranger—her hand flies up to her mouth to stifle the involuntary scream clawing at her throat.  Flattening against the wall next to the mirror, she shuts her eyes tightly and forces herself to take deep breaths until the feeling subsides.

 

_Just a hallucination, nothing more_ , she tells herself firmly and clings to that thought like a mantra. She doesn’t even want to think about what it might mean otherwise.

 

“Hey, did you get lost in there?” Torres calls.

 

“No, just checking Kathryn’s bra size,” she laughs, stepping swiftly past the mirror without looking at it.  “She’s rather well endowed for such a little lady,” she teases as she returns to the living-room.

 

Kathryn throws a pillow from the couch at her, while the others howl with laughter. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been told that my breasts are just the right size many times—one handful each,” she says primly returning to her ice cream.

 

“So when did you start developing Elizabeth?” Sam asks with a grin.

 

Elizabeth thinks about it as she helps herself to some ice cream.  “As far as I can remember at twelve—I got my period and then my best friend, Joanne, got hers a week later.  It pissed her off royally because it was just before a big competition for a spot at the Conservatory,” she sighs nostalgically. “I always teased her about it—told her that was why she played so well—she could take her cramps out on the violin.  My boobs started showing up about six months later.  You Sam?”

 

“I was going on thirteen,” Sam answers.  “You know the cliché about wearing white—I was mortified and immediately beamed home from school in tears,” she chuckles.  “My poor mother—anyway, my breasts started about the same time. Your turn B’Elanna.”

 

“Klingon girls are usually early developers,” Torres replies; Elizabeth can tell she’s uncomfortable.

 

“How early?” Kathryn asked curiously.

 

“I got mine when I was nine and my breasts started about a year later,” she replies quietly.

 

“That couldn’t have been easy,” Kathryn says sympathetically.

 

“My mother was so proud, and I just wanted to die,” Torres laughs.  “For a while there I thought they’d never stop growing—although it all evened out in the end.”

 

“And quite a nice evening out it did too,” Elizabeth teases.  “And what about you, Kathryn?”

 

“I figured my period would never come.” Kathryn blushes as she gives her response. “So I gave it up as a bad joke when I turned sixteen—”

 

_“What?”_ Torres yelps.

 

“Was there a problem?” Sam asks in concern.

 

“No, not that any doctor could find,” she replies grinning.  “They said not to be concerned and they would start me if I didn’t start on my own within six months, but I did a couple of weeks afterwards—and my sister Phoebe, who’s four years younger, started three months after me. Anyway, these two gals didn’t start showing up until I was nearly seventeen and were tender like hell for months.”

 

“I remember that,” Sam laughs.  “I was in agony—can you tell I was a melodramatic kid?”

“That’s one good thing about being Klingon—no such problems,” Torres crows.  “No tenderness and no cramps.”

 

“I could murder you for that,” Elizabeth laughs.  “Summer camp that year was hell—there were eight girls to a room. One girl would start, then another—like we were bloody dominoes. I could swear it stretched the agony out for a few more days.”

 

“Oh Lord,” Samantha groans. “Naomi will be starting puberty soon—and from what I know, K’tarian adolescence is hell.”

 

“Well enough about this,” Kathryn chuckles.  “I’m in the mood for some music—what about that guy Simon Garfunkel you were talking about?” Elizabeth bursts out laughing.  “I’d like to hear the rest of those songs you were serenading me with.”

 

“That’s Simon _and_ Garfunkel,” she corrects Kathryn as she brings her giggles under control.

 

“Serenading?” Torres asks in surprise.

 

“In the turbolift and corridor,” Kathryn explains.

 

“Computer, play musical selections by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel starting with _“I am a Rock”_ and _“Feelin’ Groovy”_ , followed by _“Mrs. Robinson”_ , _“Sound of Silence”_ , _“Scarborough Fair”_ , _“America”_ , _“The Boxer”_ , _“Bridge over Troubled Water”_ and _“Homeward Bound”_. Start playback.”

 

She watches Kathryn leans back into the couch as the music starts and the four hundred-year-old song—that voices her pain—flows from the speakers.

 

_A winter’s day_

_In a deep and dark December-_

_I am alone_

_Gazing from my window_

_To the streets below_

_On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow._

_I am a rock;_

_I am an island._

_I build walls_

_A fortress deep and mighty_

_That none may penetrate._

_I have no need of friendship;_

_Friendship causes pain._

_Its laughter and its loving I disdain._

_I am a rock;_

_I am an island._

_Don’t talk of love._

_Well, I’ve heard the word before;_

_It’s sleeping in my memory._

_I won’t disturb the slumber_

_Of feelings that have died._

_If I’d never loved I never would have cried._

_I am a rock;_

_I am an island._

_I have my books_

_And my poetry to protect me._

_I am shielded in my armour,_

_Hiding in my room_

_Safe within my tomb._

_I touch no one and no one touches me._

_I am a rock;_

_I am an island._

_And a rock feels no pain,_

_And an island never cries._

 

As the last strains of _“I am a Rock”_ gives way to the mellow tempo of _“Feelin’ Groovy”_ , B’Elanna pins Elizabeth with a toothy shark’s smile.

 

“You and I seriously need to talk Twentieth Century music and the next Cabaret.”

 

Elizabeth nods; she’s willing to help the women’s team beat the men, but she’s not comfortable with the idea of singing and dancing for an audience. Although she’s kept it up privately—more as exercise than anything else—she hasn’t really danced publicly since before her first internship at the United Nations, when she’d decided to become a professional diplomat.

 

And for over fifteen years, she’s kept that _more-than-a-little-wild_ exhibitionist streak of hers firmly under control. Perhaps it’s time to loosen those restraints just a little bit.

 

#

 

 


	5. Part 5

**Be My Homeward Dove**

 

Part 5

 

B’Elanna and Elizabeth are talking animatedly as they enter the living room and catch sight of Tom in front of the television. Their conversation dies abruptly, and Tom curses his lack of foresight; if he’d been thinking, he could have pretended to be asleep in the bedroom and perhaps caught some inkling of what they were planning for the next Cabaret.

 

Tom had started the Cabaret about six months ago—another in the long line of holodeck diversions that has become popular with the crew, like Sandrine’s, the Resort, Talent Night, Insurrection Alpha, and Fair Haven. To add some spice and mix it up a bit before the crew lost interest, he’d suggested boys against girls, with the non-participating crew as judges and the winners sharing a special holodeck day-pass the captain has offered and a pot of replicator credits—courtesy Tom’s not so clandestine betting pool. So far, the men have won three of the match-ups to the women’s one win—much to B’Elanna’s eternal ire.

 

For this last one, Tom and the guys had drawn the short stick, and so had performed their Cabaret first—with everything from Chip ‘n Dale dance routines, to tap dancing, to old Vegas-style lounge acts, to classic jazz and swing—keeping within his rules that it had to use old Twentieth Century music and dance forms. Usually Tom liked to do Sinatra, but this time, he’d wowed them with a singer named Michael Bublé, so he’d expanded the rules of the musical repertoire accordingly to encompass the first half of the Twenty-first Century.

 

B’Elanna and the girls were supposed to perform their routines a week later, but then the captain had been kidnapped and all thoughts of such diversions had gone out the window. But now that they have Janeway back, are safely beyond the reach of Fen’Domar—his _Sunbirds_ proving their worth battle beyond his expectations—and are speeding their way across the Mija Confederation, Tom has given the ladies an ultimatum of a week to get their acts ready or forfeit the contest.

 

But he is worried. It’s been more difficult than usual to get any information on what the girls are planning—even from Jenny Delaney—and eying Elizabeth’s tall, lithe figure in her loose, flowing exercise outfit, he knows that B’Elanna is taking every advantage of having a real, living Twentieth/Twenty-first Century native to advise her team.

 

_Can’t get more expert than that_ , he thinks ruefully.

 

“What are you still doing awake?” B’Elanna asks as she leans in over the back of the couch to kiss him. Even after so long, her spicy, musky taste is still intoxicating.

 

“Too early to sleep, so I thought I’d catch an episode of _Knights of the Round Table_ ,” he replies.

 

“Oh?” Elizabeth turns her gaze to the television where Lancelot is sparring with another knight, swords flashing and clanging over the Medieval-themed music.

 

“Yeah—it’s not usually my thing, but I was inspired to look it up by your story that Merlin was really the Ancient, Moros. If you want to watch, I can go back to the first episode; I’m only five episodes into the series.”

 

Elizabeth laughs as she curls into the corner of the couch. “Thanks Tom, but no. Even before I knew of the Stargate program or Atlantis, I usually avoided these so-called _‘fantasy epics’_ because they often mangled the myths so badly—and they were generally terribly acted. It’s like scientists and science fiction; a lot of the science staff on the base either hated watching the stuff because of their terrible scientific inaccuracies, or loved to watch the shows just to catalogue the errors. Apparently Dr. Parrish even made up a drinking game based on how many things they got wrong in each episode of one particularly egregious program. Although, many of them did like the purely escapist nature of the programs as well, and the good shows tackled a lot of social issues that many mainstream television programs were still not addressing in a meaningful way.”

 

“So, what do you want for dessert, Elizabeth?” B’Elanna asks; since they’d started rehearsals, she’s taken to bringing the other woman in for a nightcap of coffee and dessert afterwards.

 

“Mmm, I think our workout tonight deserves something truly decadent—Belgian waffles with dark Belgian chocolate mousse, fresh raspberries and whipped cream.”

 

B’Elanna groans as she turns to tap the request into the computer. “ _Kahless_ , you know the _best_ desserts.”

 

The other woman’s face falls; her smile disappears as if someone hit a switch and turned off some inner light.

 

“Elizabeth?” Tom can’t help the concern in his voice; the change in her demeanour is so abrupt. “Is something wrong?”

 

B’Elanna hands them each a plate of dessert, then returns to the replicator for the coffee. Elizabeth plays with the whipped cream using her spoon.

 

“It’s silly,” she says at last.

 

“What’s silly?” B’Elanna asks, placing the coffee service on the table and sitting next to Tom to enjoy her dessert.

 

“Nothing,” the other woman replies quietly before taking a bite of her dessert.

 

“Come on, Elizabeth,” Tom coaxes, “one minute you’re happy as a clam and twice as smug—no doubt about whatever nefarious plan you and Bella have cooked up for your Cabaret—”

 

She can’t help but sputter a laugh at that. “Do I sense a certain amount of worry, Mr. Paris?”

 

“Of course not!” he retorts. “And don’t try to change the subject; it’s about the captain, isn’t it?” he realises with sudden insight.

 

She flinches as if slapped.

 

“What about the captain?” B’Elanna asks around a mouthful of dessert. “I thought you two were spending more time together since the whole pissing contest with the Cazenchin was resolved.” At Elizabeth’s start of surprise, she grins. “What? You thought it was a secret? Elizabeth, you’ve been bossing her around—forcing her to eat, get more sleep ... having sleepovers ... I think it’s safe to say that everyone with eyes knows how you feel about her,” she says. After all, everyone knew how Kathryn felt about you even before you woke up in sickbay.”

 

Elizabeth’s shock renders her speechless for a few moments. “Everyone knows?” she croaks.

 

“Well, maybe not Harren and maybe a couple of shield emitter techs down on deck thirteen working gamma shift haven’t heard yet,” B’Elanna teases.

 

Elizabeth looks down at her dessert again. “I thought we were discreet,” she whispers hoarsely. “I didn’t think anyone noticed our dinners.”

 

Tom laughs to dispel the sudden tension; the last thing he, B’Elanna, or the crew want is to scare Elizabeth away from the captain. “Of course you and Janeway are discreet,” he says, reaching for her trembling fingers. He removes the dessert dish from her grasp and places it on the table.

 

Holding her cold fingers between his palms, he kneels before her. “I don’t think that either of you know any other way to be. But after a decade out here, we also know and love our captain, and the woman who materialised on the _Delta Flyer_ with you collapsed in her arms … the woman who arrived in sickbay, while the nanites were torturing you, was definitely _not_ our captain. She’s a woman we’ve seen very rarely, especially in the last few years, and believe me, Elizabeth, when Kathryn Janeway shows up, the crew knows almost immediately. But I think everyone is aware and adult enough to know that any relationship needs space and privacy to grow. We all just want her—and you—to be happy.”

 

“And we definitely know you make her happy,” B’Elanna continues with a bright smile. “So what’s the problem?”

 

Elizabeth manages a wan smile. “Oh God—life can certainly throw you some curveballs. I don’t know what the problem is exactly, other than I think I may have scared her off during that first dinner in her quarters.”

 

“What do you mean?” Tom asks curiously; his skin begins to tingle as a sudden thought takes root in his mind. _Perhaps this is a woman who can go toe to toe with Janeway; she’ll always strive to understand her—and more than that, really pursue the captain._

 

“Since the sleepover—in fact, since our first dinner—she’s been a bit ... distant,” Elizabeth replies thoughtfully. “Not cold exactly—she’s never cold—” She glances at Tom and B’Elanna from beneath long lashes framing shy green eyes and blushes. “And she’s great to talk to, but she’s not the way she was that first night. That night she was flirty … seemed to be having fun and really enjoying herself as we chatted. She seemed very ... ah ... interested, but I think I may have taken our flirtation too far, too quickly. I was teasing her about her reputed lack of cooking skills and we got onto the subject of what I liked to cook. I told her about the dishes my mother had taught me, and about the recipes I’d acquired over the years. Everything was just so light and fun, I commented that what I really liked to make were desserts—that I’d had a fling with a sous chef in Paris one summer and that he’d taught me a few things both in and out of the kitchen.”

 

Tom stares at the woman open-mouthed and all he can think is, _God, she moves fast!_

 

She squirms under his incredulous gaze. Before he can help himself, he starts to laugh. B’Elanna joins him a moment later and he is literally rolling on the floor, laughing himself to tears.

 

“Well I’m glad I can provide you both with such great amusement,” Elizabeth says in annoyance.

 

Tom sits up, still chuckling as she shoots him a dark look. “Sorry, Elizabeth, but I dare say, I don’t think that our captain has ever been so charmingly propositioned before. I’d say she is indeed very ... ah ... _interested_ in you. I’d bet she probably wanted throw you down on the dinner table and have … ah … her wicked way with you then and there.”

 

As Elizabeth’s blush deepens, B’Elanna growls, “Yeah, and the moment she realised what she was thinking, she shut down and retreated behind her almighty _Starfleet_ protocols. She’s my friend and I love her, but by Kahless, I will _never_ understand that woman.”

 

“Starfleet protocols?” Elizabeth asks quietly, concern replacing humour.

 

“Yeah, the ones that say ‘thou shall not _fuck_ your subordinates’—the holy tenet a lot of captains see as the be all and end all … will adhere to even under these crap circumstances,” B’Elanna says with derision.

 

#

 

Tom bristles visibly at her words. “You know damned well that’s a shitty and simplistic way of putting it,” he says rising from the floor. “Starfleet culture is something you, Chakotay, the Maquis—in fact, most of this bloody crew have never bothered to try and understand! And because you don’t do so, you’ll _never_ really understand Kathryn Janeway.”

 

_“Starfleet bloody culture!”_ More derision drips from B’Elanna’s voice; perversely, Elizabeth is both shocked and relieved to hear the profanities colour their vocabularies. She doesn’t swear much, but has to admit she was half afraid that she’d have to be on good behaviour for the rest of her life.

 

“Enough!” she barks, wading into the obviously old argument between the spouses, looking from one angry face to the other. “B’Elanna, if there is one thing I’ve learned is that military culture—for all that it is an artificial social construct of rules and regulations and rank—it is indeed a valid culture, and right now, from what Tom seems to be saying, it’s something _I_ need to understand. Tell me about Starfleet culture, Tom,” Elizabeth says quietly as B’Elanna throws herself into the arm-chair and attacks her dessert.

 

“All right,” he replies eying his sulky wife. “The first thing you have to understand is that Starfleet is something Kathryn Janeway was born into, not something she entered as a nearly-formed adult of seventeen or eighteen.”

 

“Her father was Vice Admiral Edward Janeway,” B’Elanna mutters. “He was one of Starfleet’s premiere engineers and ship designers thirty to forty years ago.”

 

“Yeah,” Tom chuckles again. “Everyone always focuses on Edward and the Janeway family name, but it’s Captain Janeway’s mother you might want to focus on—Gretchen Janeway has probably had the clout to write her own ticket on any Starfleet ship in the alpha quadrant since she learned to talk.”

 

“What do you mean?” B’Elanna asks in confusion.

 

Tom gapes in shock.  “Good lord, B’Elanna!” he sputters. “Have you never _thought_ to look up who your captain’s mother is?”

 

“I know that she’s a civilian—a mathematician—connected in some way to a couple of the old Starfleet families,” B’Elanna replies with a shrug, “but I never really paid much attention to which.”

 

“And _that’s_ the difference between Starfleet, and Starfleet born and bred,” Tom drawls. “Oh, dear old Mama Gretchen is _connected_ alright,” he continues. “If I remember correctly her maiden name is Ekaterina Gretchen Sati-Chekov von Teichmann.”

 

_“What?”_ B’Elanna gasps in utter disbelief; this obviously means something to her.

 

Tom grins like a cat that’s eaten an entire aviary full of canaries and washed them down with a few litres of the best cream.

 

“Well, she usually went by Dr. Gretchen von Teichmann, and after she married, Dr. Gretchen Janeway, but her father was Admiral Helmut von Teichmann and her mother, Admiral Ekaterina Sati-Chekov,” he says, obviously enjoying his wife’s flabbergasted expression.

 

“Who are they?” Elizabeth asks; there’s a curious breathless quality to her voice.

 

“Starfleet royalty,” B’Elanna whispers. “Two of the most _celebrated_ admirals to come along in the last century—right up there with Kirk, Spock, Pendleton, Sayun, Biramitoch ...”

 

“Gretchen’s uncle, her mother’s half-brother, was Admiral Aaron Sati—the Judge Advocate General who laid down many of the modern Starfleet regulations,” Tom continues.  “Among her living relatives are Judge Norah Sati and Ambassador Nathaniel Chekov—and of course one of Gretchen’s grandfathers just happened to be Admiral Pavel Chekov.”

 

Tom laughs again in the stunned silence. “And the Janeways are no slouches either; not when you count all those admirals—at least one per generation—and not to mention a few Archers back in direct descent to _the_ Captain Jonathan Archer, the first captain of the first warp 5 starship, _Enterprise_.”

 

“Oh gods,” Elizabeth says hoarsely. “So royalty—and all the expectations that go with it.”

 

Tom nods, still smiling gently. “And if _Voyager_ hadn’t got stuck out here, I have no doubt that our lovely captain would be at least Commodore Janeway or even Vice Admiral Janeway by now. That’s why I say that even more so than anyone I’ve known, she’s the epitome of ‘Fleet culture—as an old Academy friend once observed about another scion of Starfleet royalty; _“she probably came out of the womb saluting”_.”

 

Elizabeth can’t help but smile at the ridiculous image of an infant Kathryn saluting her father, even though her heart feels like it is breaking. “Well, I’ve certainly been around the military long enough to know about fraternisation rules,” she says hoarsely. “You mean that because of Starfleet’s fraternisation regulations, she won’t have an intimate relationship with someone on her crew.”

 

Tom’s gentle smile doesn’t falter as he takes her hand again and sits next to her. “No, I mean that because of Starfleet’s fraternisation regulations, she won’t _initiate_ an intimate relationship with someone on her crew.”

 

“It’s the same thing,” B’Elanna begins as Elizabeth suddenly registers the import of his words and the distinction regarding his interpretation of Kathryn’s mindset versus her own.

 

“No it’s _not_ —Elizabeth understands,” Tom replies.

 

“She won’t _initiate_ a relationship with someone on her crew because we’re all her subordinates,” Elizabeth says slowly. “But, is there anything to prevent a _subordinate_ from initiating a relationship with her?”

 

“Give the young lady a prize!” Tom chortles, stroking her cheek as B’Elanna gasps a startled, _“What?”_

 

Tom turns his gaze on his wife; an exceedingly bitter look flashes across his face. “You’ve never wanted to know any of this—and the last time I tried to explain it to Chakotay was after he’d rescued us from Quarra. He was all cut up about the seeming ease with which she’d started a relationship with Jaffen and how upset she was to leave her lover behind. Anyway, he threw me into a bulkhead, told me to mind my own _fucking_ business, and then a couple of months later, he started dating Annika.”

 

Tom chuckles as his wife glowers. “He threw you into a _bulkhead_?” she growls in outrage.

 

“It was over three years ago, B’Elanna—you can hardly get mad at him now!”

 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

 

“Because there was no point,” Paris retorts. “It was chaos and we were all still shell-shocked from regaining our memories and being on _Voyager_ again. Emotions were raw—besides, he apologised later. There was nothing to do but let it go.”

 

“Kathryn and Chakotay?” Elizabeth asks hoarsely; she’s noticed an odd tension sometimes between Janeway and her first officer.

 

“They’ve only ever been friends, Elizabeth,” Tom says quickly.

 

“Because she never allowed anything to happen,” B’Elanna accuses standing there defiantly.

 

“No, because she went as far as she could—and yes, it was her adherence to regulations that stopped her. But he wasn’t willing to do what it took to close the deal, because it meant bowing to _Starfleet_ regulations. No, he just waited for her to break the regs—as if by doing so would prove she cared—and when she didn’t, he simply went around with his heart on his sleeve and everyone blamed her for _his_ heartbreak because obviously _she_ didn’t care,” Tom says sarcastically. “Everyone always harps on her love of protocol and regulations, but no one takes a moment to think about what they _mean_ to her—what they mean to someone born to Starfleet … and what it means every _fucking_ time she has to break one of them to save her crew.”

 

“It shreds the soul,” Elizabeth whispers. “Well, I certainly know about the things one does to keep one’s sanity intact. The fraternisation protocols are something she won’t compromise … can’t compromise, especially for herself. They’re her line in the sand.”

 

“Exactly,” Tom replies looking at her in admiration. “Everyone always remembers Regulation 47; an officer should not _initiate_ an intimate relationship with a subordinate crew member under his or her command—blah, blah, blah! It’s even more frowned upon with captains and senior officers, because it’s a regulation about power and coercion. But Starfleet isn’t some heartless, monolithic organisation; it recognises that it can’t control who people fall in love with, nor does it seek to—”

 

“But it has to protect its weaker members from coercion by more powerful members,” Elizabeth says, following his train of thought to its logical conclusion.

 

“Yeah,” he says smiling sadly. “Like I said, people remember Regulation 47, but hardly anyone remembers the corollary, Regulation 48, Subsection 12, which simply states that there is nothing to prevent a crew member from initiating a relationship with another who is his or her senior, provided that the crew member who is more senior does not show favouritism on his or her paramour while _on duty_.”

 

Elizabeth stares at him, her heart in her throat. “You mean all I have to do is _ask_ her?”

 

Tom nods, chuckling heartily. “Well, the actual regulation legalese is a bit more involved than that and there is a formality that should be taken care of if you’re really serious about going by the regs—”

 

“A formal Declaration of Intention, duly signed, witnessed and filed with your immediate superior,” B’Elanna says quietly as she sits down next to him again.

 

“Exactly, B’Elanna,” Tom replies, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her ridged forehead. He turns his twinkling gaze back to an expectant Elizabeth. “Everyone knows it’s there, but hardly anyone ever uses it. It’s kept on the books for a reason though, and we can download the form for you right now. Once you’ve filled it in, B’Elanna and I can witness it, and since your new Diplomatic Affairs Office falls under Tuvok’s supervision, you would file it with him. He would then affix his approval and route it to the … ah … _officer_ in question for a response. If we hurry, we can make it into the queue before he sends his daily report to the captain—otherwise, he’ll send it tomorrow.”

 

Her stunned silence drags on as a herd of elephants stampede through her stomach.

 

“You don’t have to do it tonight,” Tom says quickly; she can see the sudden uncertainty in his expression. “You can take your time and think about it—”

 

“No! I want to!” Elizabeth yelps eagerly and then flushes with embarrassment. “I guess I just can’t believe it’s _this_ easy.”

 

“Well I doubt that any relationship with Kathryn Janeway will be _easy_ ,” Tom chortles. “But letting her know of your interest and that you’re serious about pursuing a romantic relationship with her is relatively simple.”

 

#

 

Lieutenant Commander Tuvok has just finished his daily security briefing for the captain when his computer chimes, alerting him to another item in his daily briefing queue. He frowns, mentally reviewing the expected reports for the day and can find nothing outstanding.

 

Curious now, he opens the file and as the contents are displayed, he’s struck by an involuntary reflex that has his eyebrows crawling towards his hairline. Taking a moment to bring his expression under control again, he reads the document thoroughly with as much dispassion as he can muster, given its surprising contents. After a moment’s contemplation, he affixes his thumbprint to the signature box in the authorisation section and attaches the document to his security report.

 

With an efficient series of taps on his console’s interface, he routes it to the captain’s incoming queue. Sitting back in his chair, he ponders his steepled fingers and—though he would have denied it had there been anyone to see it—he smiles.

 

#

 

It’s already past 2300 hours and racing towards midnight when Kathryn looks up from the PADDs of research proposals and daily briefing reports littering her desk. Rubbing her forehead tiredly, she contemplates calling it a night, but _the Captain_ wins out, insisting it will only be worse tomorrow.

 

As she fetches another cup of coffee from the replicator, she tries to decide which one to tackle next—Annika’s proposal to start developing _naquadah_ -based subspace sensor arrays or Tuvok’s daily security report. In the end, Tuvok’s report wins out because; a) its contents are apt to be more immediately relevant to the day-to-day running of _Voyager_ ; and b) although both reports will be incredibly dry and humourless, the security briefing has the distinction of being much shorter than the _Giga-quad_ length tome Annika calls a proposal and expects her to wade through _immediately_ , if not yesterday.

 

However, she takes a few moments to sit back in her chair and savour her coffee, rolling her shoulders to lessen the tension in them. She allows her mind to wander and it inevitably goes straight to the only destination it has been interested in going lately— _Elizabeth_.

 

To say that the beautiful brunette has been occupying more and more of her thoughts is an understatement. There are moments—especially during their dinners—when her connection to Elizabeth feels so strong, Kathryn barely has the presence of mind to keep from pressing the woman up against a bulkhead and allowing _all_ her heated fantasies free reign. And she knows Elizabeth is interested—her ‘come-hither’ gaze and flirtatious little comments can hardly be classified as _innocent_ —but Kathryn can’t be sure that her interest isn’t some sort of gratitude or transference of affection for rescuing her from the slavers. _From the brothel_.

 

All her life, Kathryn has been leery of taking advantage of or harming someone in a vulnerable position; from her ex-boyfriend when she was a teenager—taking his verbal abuse when she got into Starfleet Academy and he didn’t—because she was too young and naive to simply walk away from him; to an ensign with a crush that bordered on obsessive when she was still a young lieutenant; to Harry Kim when he’d first come on board so green and needing his captain’s approval so desperately that it had taken all her strength not to mother him; to Tom and his need for redemption; or to B’Elanna and her need to prove herself. She hopes that she has been a good captain and mentor for all her junior officers.

 

Even in her personal friendships she feels obliged to follow the regs. No, only three times on this journey has she allowed herself to feel anything for a crew member far outside the proscribed boundaries of captain and subordinate, and each in its own way has led to disaster.

 

_Kes_ , the daughter she’d dared not keep, and who’d returned from her journeys insane and determined to kill her.

 

_Annika_ , the daughter she’d dared to keep, and who’d stayed with the ship, but had grown into an angry and jealous young woman who’d let Kathryn know in no uncertain terms—a few days before her marriage to Chakotay—that the only place Kathryn Janeway occupied in her life was that of _Captain_ ... and _“stay away from my husband!”_ So outside her duties to the ship, and despite Kathryn’s best efforts, Seven ... _Annika_ no longer interacted with her captain and mentor.

 

_That’s it, Captain, no more daughter surrogates for you_. Turning from the bitter memory, she swallows another mouthful of coffee.

 

_And Chakotay_? Her conscience goads her. Her deteriorated relationship with her first officer since his marriage will always be a source of great regret. She sometimes wonders how it might have been if she’d been able to break that ingrained need to adhere to the fraternisation regulations and simply gone to him, despite her misgivings about being in love with him, surrendered herself and taken whatever he had to offer.

 

She makes a face as she swallows another bitter gulp of black coffee; no time for such maudlin thoughts. Chakotay and Annika are married now; even if she had been interested, he was forever _verboten_.

 

Turning her attention back to her console, she brings up the security briefing.

 

Her mind is on automatic as she ploughs through Tuvok’s dry prose. There’s nothing specific that requires her attention—drills went as expected; average reaction time is within acceptable parameters, if a bit slow. Tuvok attributes this to anticipation of the upcoming Cabaret and notes that reaction times are apt to be better after the crew has had R&R, be it on the holodeck or shore leave.

 

On another note, his and Lieutenant Rollins’ weapons design team agree that adding _naquadah_ focusing rings to the phaser array should allow them to sustain a blast for thirty-three percent longer without appreciable attenuation of the beam or appreciable increase in the amount of energy needed to power the phasers. However, they’ve deemed the mineral too dangerous to add to the photon torpedoes—it could potentially destabilise the warhead containment unit and it wouldn’t increase their yield by more than a few isotons anyway.

 

Kathryn grins and affixes her thumbprint to authorise their research into the _naquadah_ -based phaser enhancements; Elizabeth’s arrival has certainly opened a new realm of research Starfleet has never really considered and she’s glad for it. Out here, innovation means survival.

 

The small file attached to the end of Tuvok’s report comes as a surprise. It’s simply labelled with her name, rank and serial number; Janeway, Kathryn Marie; Captain, _USS Voyager_ ; JKMα59113ε9571π. With one finger, she taps it tiredly.

 

_What now?_

 

#

 

Declaration of Intention

 

Petitioner:

 

Name: Elizabeth Siobhan Weir

 

Date of Birth: October 14, 1970. See ship’s log, stardate 58548.5, _USS Voyager_ re: Details of temporal and omnicordial displacement of subject, Dr. Elizabeth Weir.

 

Age: See medical log, stardate 58548.5, _USS Voyager_ re: Details of alien nanite infestation and repair of life-threatening injuries in patient, Dr. Elizabeth Weir.

            Chronological ~ 410 years

            Physiological ~ 35 years

            Psychological ~ 40 years

 

Current Rank: Not Applicable; Civilian Consultant, _USS Voyager_.

 

Current Position: Ambassador & Chief Negotiator. See ship’s log, stardate 58548.9, _USS Voyager_ re: Details of appointment of Dr. Elizabeth Weir to the position of Ambassador  & Chief Negotiator for _USS Voyager_.

 

Intended:

 

Name: Kathryn Marie Janeway

 

Date of Birth: May 20, 2334

 

Age: 46 years

 

Current Rank: Captain

 

Current Position: Captain, _USS Voyager_

 

Declaration:

 

I, Elizabeth Siobhan Weir, a mentally competent being of legal age for my species, hereby, without coercion or undue influence, file this Declaration of my intention to pursue an intimate, personal relationship with Kathryn Marie Janeway, a mentally competent being of legal age for her species.

 

Date of Declaration: December 19, 2380

 

Time of Declaration: 2208 hours

 

Signature: Elizabeth Siobhan Weir

 

Witness # 1: Lieutenant Commander B’Elanna Torres, Chief Engineer, _USS Voyager_

 

Witness # 2: Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris, Chief Helmsman, _USS Voyager_

 

Authorisation:

 

Name, Filing Authority: Lieutenant Commander Tuvok, Chief of Security, _USS Voyager_

 

Date of Filing: December 19, 2380

 

Time of Filing: 2215 hours

 

Authorisation Signature: Lieutenant Commander Tuvok

 

#

 

Kathryn stares at the document slack-jawed for endless moments. She’s so shocked that she doesn’t realise she’s sitting there just looking at it with tears streaming down her face until everything goes completely blurry and suddenly the screen goes blank. It takes her a moment to consciously realise that her terminal has simply timed out.

 

Drying her eyes, she hastily taps in her codes and retrieves the security report, dreading that it’s all been a hallucination or a practical joke. But the file is still there firmly attached to Tuvok’s report, and as she opens it again, she lets out the breath she doesn’t know she is holding.

 

She reads it again, gut twisting as if some unseen hand has reached into her belly and tied her insides into knots.

 

_“Elizabeth, do you know what you’re doing?”_

 

Her own voice in the still room startles her; she hadn’t planned to say that aloud. She notices the signatures again; Tom and B’Elanna. _Have they somehow persuaded her to do this?_ As the thought registers, her chest tightens and she finds it impossible to breathe.

 

_Damn it! Why couldn’t they just mind their own business! Now they’ve ruined everything!_ she thinks in a panic.

 

_And Elizabeth isn’t a grown woman with a mind of her own?_ her conscience goads her as the sobs come now, hard and gut wrenching. _Is she a child or an imbecile to be led around by the nose? Is that really how you think of her?_

 

Kathryn drops her face into her hands. _No, Elizabeth isn’t a child or an imbecile, but there’s just so much to consider._

 

_Excuses! What’s there to consider, Kathryn, or should I say_ Captain _? What are you really afraid of? What is Captain Kathryn Janeway really afraid of? That Elizabeth won’t back off when you get scared ... when you start quoting regulations to her ... Hell, by sending the Declaration, she’s put you on notice that she already knows all your arguments ... all your excuses and she won’t let you dismiss her so easily._

_“No sir-ree, Katie-dear,”_ her mother’s laughing voice rings disconcertingly in her inner ear now. _“She’s on to you, and you_ know _she won’t let you go!”_

 

Kathryn dries her eyes and tries to focus on the Declaration again. _“I, Elizabeth Siobhan Weir,”_ she reads hoarsely, _“a mentally competent being of legal age for my species, hereby, without coercion or undue influence, file this Declaration of my intention to pursue an intimate, personal relationship with Kathryn Marie Janeway, a mentally competent being of legal age for her species.”_

 

It’s so simple ... such a simple passage that means so much. And she’s waited so long to receive it; she’s convinced herself that she never will.

 

Suddenly, she realises that from now on, everything that happens in this relationship is up to them both. But in this moment, an unbearable onus has been taken off her shoulders.

 

_“Can you bear this burden, Elizabeth?”_ she whispers. _“Can you bear the weight of me and all I’ll bring to lay at your feet? We barely know each other, but I want this so badly ... I want_ you _so badly and I’m so tired of fighting myself.”_

 

Kathryn touches the Respondent icon and the final section of the document opens; she looks at the choice of responses, takes a deep breath and chooses.

 

#

 

Respondent:

 

Name: Kathryn Marie Janeway

 

Date of Response: December 19, 2380

 

Time of Response: 2352 hours

 

Response:

 

I, Kathryn Marie Janeway, a mentally competent being of legal age for my species, hereby, without coercion or undue influence, accept this Declaration of Intention filed by Elizabeth Siobhan Weir for the purposes stated within.

 

Signature: Kathryn Marie Janeway

 

Elizabeth gives an involuntary squeal of happiness and claps her hands over her mouth as she re-reads the message she’s been anxiously awaiting for the better part of the last two hours.

 

Tom chuckles and leans in over her shoulder to look at the completed Declaration. “I knew it! I knew she’d answer before midnight,” he says as he hugs her. “And it looks like you have Papa Tuvok’s wholehearted approval as well to date his little Katie-Jane! I dare say he’s _very_ excited—for Tuvok, that is.”

 

Laughing her relief, she says, “But you said that there was little chance that he wouldn’t authorise the document. I don’t see anything that indicates approval or disapproval; he didn’t even include a note saying _‘here’s your completed form’_. So how can you look at it and tell that he approves at all, much less that he’s excited?”

 

Tom grins as he taps something into the computer and she finds she’s looking at two computer file dates with a slight discrepancy in the time logs. “Number one, he sent this copy to you a full minute _before_ he logged it to the public notice board—not that it’s a big deal, but it’s definitely not standard protocol and if there’s anything Tuvok stands for it’s _protocol_. Usually, a declaration simply tacked up on the notice board and you find out with the rest of us _riff-raff_ that she’s said _yes_.” He laughs again as she blushes. “And number two, he didn’t simply send the message to your comm account, he pinged the message to _this_ terminal in _these_ quarters directly, which tells me that he asked the computer for your location and if you were awake. He wanted to put you out of your misery as quickly as possible—look, he sent it at 2354. That’s less than three minutes after the captain logged her acceptance response—in fact, it looks like he was waiting up for it. Believe me, that’s the equivalent of our stoic Vulcan kicking up his heels and doing a jig!”

 

Elizabeth can’t help the giggles that bubble out of her, filled with equal parts relief, excitement and trepidation.

 

“So she said yes?” B’Elanna asks lifting a bleary head to peer over the back of the couch.

 

“Yeah,” Elizabeth says sheepishly. “Sorry I woke you up.”

 

B’Elanna waves off her apology as she stands up and yawns widely, stretching like a cat. “Then ask her to dinner and the Cabaret,” she suggests. “It can be your first public date.”

 

“And I’d suggest you have dinner in your quarters first,” Tom says gently. “The privacy will help with any nervousness or awkwardness you’re both bound to feel.”

 

“Just don’t be nervous when it comes to your Cabaret routines,” his wife grouses. “We have a lot of male asses to kick!”

 

Tom frowns. Elizabeth laughs and laughs.

 

#

 

_“You lucky dog!”_ Roberto Ayala’s greeting and resounding slap on the back makes Noah Lessing jump, dropping the basket of vegetables he’d been gathering in the airponics garden. As the dark-skinned man retaliates with a friendly swat, Ayala laughs and squats to help him pick up the spilled produce.

 

“What are you talking about?” Lessing demands.

 

“You didn’t know you won the pot?” his friend says incredulously. “Paris posted it this morning, about half an hour ago—your bet was the closest with Christmas Day.”

 

“The Doc has me on a reduced work schedule for the next couple of weeks, so I’ve been down in the ‘ponics pipes for almost an hour doing a bit of preventative maintenance on the system,” Lessing replies. “Then Chell asked me to get some veggies for lunch. You mean the captain and Dr. Weir—”

 

“Oh yeah!” Ayala crows loudly. “A declaration was posted to the public board around midnight. How’d you guess? _Man_ —that woman works fast when she really wants something!”

 

Lessing laughs, a full, rich, rumbling sound. “Come on Roberto, you’ve seen Dr. Weir—tell me you’re surprised.”

 

“No, I’m not surprised that they got together,” Ayala says. “Anyone with eyes to see knew where they were headed. But you have to admit _that_ was quick.”

 

“Definitely,” Lessing chuckles again as they gather up the last of the wayward vegetables. “But the captain deserves an early Christmas present, don’t you think?”

 

“Oh yeah! So what are you going to do with your ill-gotten gains?”

 

“It was already half-spent the moment you told me,” Lessing laughs as they put away the gardening tools. “Presents for Naomi and Icheb—and definitely going to go a bit more elaborate on what I was planning to get Samantha—”

 

“Think you can spare ten credits?” Ayala asks hopefully.

 

Lessing eyes him shrewdly. “You already owe me three from last month.”

 

“I know,” Ayala replies grinning. “And I’ll pay you back.” He pulls a PADD from his pocket and hands it to the other man.

 

Lessing studies the information for a moment and looks up in surprise. “Oh boy! This what I think it is?”

 

Ayala laughs and picks up the basket of vegetables. “If you think it’s an engagement ring, then you’re spot on,” he says. “I want to give it to Meghan for Christmas, but I’m ten credits short.”

 

“Another one bites the dust,” Lessing says shaking his head at the loss of yet another bachelor. “Sure, I’m feeling generous today—consider it a Christmas gift, but you still owe me those three from last month.”

 

“Thanks Noah,” Ayala says sincerely.

 

“Well, we’d better go collect my winnings from Paris before I spend any more of it,” Lessing says as they head to the exit. “The shyster has to get his cut and I think there are two ladies who would definitely benefit from a bit of a Christmas bonus—after all, they did help me win it!”

 

Ayala roars with laughter as they leave the cargo-bay that had been converted into a garden.

 

As the doors clang shut, Chakotay comes around the divider that separates the vegetable garden from the smaller flower garden. He’s carrying an arrangement of red Heart’s Desire, delicate lace fern and silver Dalani orchids in a small vase. Annika will already be at her station, but she always appreciates the small touches he brings to their home.

 

He’s two days into his Gamma shift rotation, and came down to the garden—as he does each morning when he’s on this schedule—to meditate and unwind before heading to bed.

 

“Now I know what had Ayala, Bristow and even Sarnik so distracted after their break last night,” he mutters, frowning at the shut door. In fact, it seemed like the entire shift was buzzing with subdued excitement, but each time he attempted to figure out what was going on, they’d clam up.

 

_“Kathryn and Elizabeth?”_

 

Even saying it aloud seems foreign on his tongue; Kathryn has never given any indication that she was interested in women. Suddenly he remembers Ayala’s words, _“A declaration was posted to the public board around midnight last night.”_

 

A declaration. Kathryn had sent a formal Declaration of Intention to the other woman last night, which had been accepted and posted to the Public Board.

 

A knot of formless anger twists in his gut. _So much for the_ Captain _not getting involved with a member of her crew!_

 

_You’ve nothing to get angry about!_ he chastises himself firmly. _Kathryn is a grown woman—a free woman—who can do what she likes, and you ..._

 

_And you’re a married man,_ a little voice mocks.

 

The flowers in his hand suddenly seem dull, lifeless.

 

#

 

Elizabeth hums as she reviews the information they’ve received from the Mija regarding their neighbours in the sector. Although they planned to resupply at one of the Mija’s outposts on the far boarder, it is of particular concern as within three months, _Voyager_ will encounter a region of space devoid of stars for nearly four hundred light years.

 

The crew has been through a similar Void before, so getting as much into storage as possible is of highest priority. Annika’s briefing had been an eye-opener for Elizabeth; her Earth’s ships crossed such voids in hyperspace—indeed traversed the void between galaxies so quickly—that such planning never really occurred to her except in a vague theoretical sense.

 

#

 

_“How long this time Seven?”_ Kathryn had asked as she stared at the area of space plotted on the large astrometric screen.

 

_“Approximately four months at warp 6.5, captain, on the optimal course I have charted,”_ the young woman replied, overlaying the course for the senior officers gathered in the lab.

 

_“That’s not too bad,”_ Chakotay said yawning broadly as he tried to banish the sleep from his eyes; Elizabeth realized that this summons must have woken him up after less than an hour’s sleep. Kathryn glared at him before giving a wan smile.

 

_“All right then, but this time I want to make sure we’re as stocked up as we possibly can be on everything,”_ Kathryn said firmly, returning her attention to the large volume of space devoid of stars. _“Commander Torres, I know we have a lot of raw materials in storage, but I’d an inventory of manufactured components as soon as possible—paying particular attention to those components that are hard to replicate or manufacture. Perhaps we can trade for them.”_ As Torres nods and murmurs her acknowledgement, Kathryn turns her attention to Elizabeth. _“Dr. Wier, I want you to work with Commander Chakotay regarding the logistics of contacting those societies and governments we’ll have to deal with.”_

 

_“Yes captain,”_ Elizabeth replied smartly, looking down at her PADD and pulling up various inventory lists.  _“I’ll get right on it.  How long do we have before we get there?”_

 

_“A little less than three months,”_ Kathryn replied.  _“So let’s get started on possible ports of trade and planets to forage on before we attempt the crossing.”_

 

_“Understood,”_ Elizabeth said. _“I take it you’ve all been through this kind of thing before.”_

 

_“In a manner of speaking, yes,”_ Paris replied with a grin.  _“Let’s just say that everyone nearly went stir crazy—”_

 

_“You mean more than usual?”_ she quipped.

 

_“Way more than usual,”_ Harry laughed.  _“We were facing two years of complete nothingness.”_   Elizabeth’s eyes widened in surprise as he continued, _“Lucky thing we found a short cut through a subspace portal after a couple of months—I’d never been more happy to see stars again.”_

 

Kathryn gave a tight smile, as if remembering something exceedingly unpleasant. _“All right everyone,”_ she said briskly after a moment, _“let’s get started—it’s going to be a long couple of months.”_

 

#

 

However, although she’s just had a large load of work dumped on her desk, she can’t help the light-hearted feeling that permeates her entire being, and it’s all because of Kathryn.

 

_“You’re in a good mood.”_

 

Moira Jarvis’ voice startles her, shattering Elizabeth’s sense of peace; she didn’t even hear her office door open.

 

“Moira—what are you doing here?” she asks, trying to regain her calm.

 

The red-head smiled. “I just thought I’d check up on you.”

 

“Why? Did I forget an appointment?” she asks in confusion. “As I recall, our next one is at 2:30 pm tomorrow.”

 

“No, you haven’t forgotten an appointment,” Jarvis replies quietly.

 

“Then why are you here?” Elizabeth is annoyed now, but she can guess the answer.

 

The other woman’s blue eyes narrow and her lips thin to a displeased crease. “All right,” she says sitting down in the chair on the other side of Elizabeth’s desk. “If that’s the way you want to play it. Computer, lock the door—privacy mode for this room until I release it; Jarvis beta-one-one-rho-alpha-phi-three-epsilon.”

 

“Acknowledged; privacy mode engaged. Door will be sealed until authorised command is received.”

 

“Now, don’t you think it’s a little too soon to be sending her declarations of any kind, much less a Declaration of Intention?”

 

All Elizabeth’s defensive hackles rise at Moira’s high-handedness and she fights hard to control her anger. “That is none of your business. It’s between me and Kathryn.”

 

“Everything about you is my business right now,” Moira replies evenly. “ _Kathryn Janeway_ made it my business ... _you_ made it my business when you consented to me as your therapist.”

 

Elizabeth looks away from those piercing blue eyes with a sudden feeling of defeat. “You don’t approve of me having a relationship with your captain,” she whispers, her words hoarse around that tight knot in her throat that threatens to cut off her air supply.

 

“My _approval_ of your relationship with Captain Janeway has nothing to do with this,” Moira says quietly. “And the fact that it’s the first thing you thought of says a _hell_ of a lot about where your head is at right now, Elizabeth.”

 

Elizabeth couldn’t help but flinch at the accusation inherent in those words.

 

“What I am concerned about is the _rate_ at which this relationship seems to be progressing. You’ve only been here for a little more than three weeks—after being in an intense situation for a few days with the captain. Not to mention everything that happened to you before she got there. Don’t you think you should spend a little more time getting to know her first?”

 

Elizabeth barks a bitter laugh as she meets the other woman’s gaze defiantly. “I already _know_ everything I need to know about Kathryn,” she says, anger making her tone harsh and ugly. “So don’t worry about me—I know what I’m doing.”

 

“Who says it’s _you_ I’m worried about?” Moira says and Elizabeth gapes at her in shock. “Have you even given _any_ thought to what this means to her? What this would mean to a woman who has spent the better part of the last _decade_ alone? A woman who lost her fiancé and the family they were no doubt planning—because you and I both know she won’t have kids while we’re out here ... while she’s captain. She lost everything, Elizabeth, when she stranded this ship and crew in order to save an entire civilisation. Have you thought about that?”

 

Elizabeth looks down at her desk and is silent for a few moments; she’s ashamed to admit that she hasn’t given anything but the most cursory thought to those issues. She’s counting on time and simply being with Kathryn while they work through anything that might come up.

 

Moira continues gently, “Look, I’m not disapproving of your relationship with the captain—in fact I think it would be a good thing for the both of you. But a formal Declaration like that _means_ something, Elizabeth, and she’ll be coming to this relationship with certain expectations I’m not sure _you’re_ ready for.”

 

Elizabeth meets her gaze again. “You mean sex—Kathryn would never do anything I’d be uncomfortable with.”

 

Moira’s gentle expression turns to one of deep frustration. _“Saints above!”_ she snaps. “How is she to know what you’re uncomfortable with if you don’t talk to her, Elizabeth? Does she know not to approach and attempt to touch you from the back? Does she know what simple, innocent actions or words will trigger a flashback or a nightmare for you?”

 

Again, Elizabeth flinches and feels as though her heart is breaking.

 

“You can’t continue to make these assumptions about her—yes, she’s observant woman, and she’s kind and thoughtful. She wouldn’t do something on purpose to hurt you; but how do you think she’s going to feel if she does something by accident?”

 

All Elizabeth can hear in the silence is her own ragged breathing as she fights to keep her tears at bay. Tom Paris’ jovial voice over the comm system makes her jump at the sudden interruption.

 

“Paris to Weir.”

 

She’s grateful for the interruption and quickly taps her commbadge. “This is Weir,” she croaks before discretely clearing her throat. “How can I help you, Tom?”

 

“Would you have time to come down to the shuttle bay right now? It’s about your shuttle.”

 

Elizabeth meets Moira’s gaze and after a moment the other woman nods, her expression inscrutable.

 

“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

 

“Thanks Dr. Weir!” he replies enthusiastically. “See you in a few minutes; Paris out.”

 

“Computer, release privacy mode and unlock the door; Jarvis beta-one-one-rho-alpha-phi-three-epsilon.”

 

“Thanks,” Elizabeth husks, rising from behind her desk as the computer acknowledges the order.

 

Moira catches her hand as she attempts to walk past. “It’s not simply about sex,” she says quietly. “Although that is a part of it—it’s about intimacy and trust. I need you to think about this, Elizabeth ... really _think_ about it before you two get any deeper into this relationship.”

 

Elizabeth nods. “I will. I promise.”

 

#

 

_“Dr. Weir!”_

 

Elizabeth is deep in thought as she follows Tal Celes to the turbolift—she still has only a vague idea where the shuttle bay is and the young woman needed a break—when she hears her name called out with definite childish happiness.

 

Moira’s admonishment is still ringing in her ears, but she turns, and plasters a smile on her face as Naomi Wildman gallops down the corridor, gangly arms and legs flying.

 

The half-alien girl has recently been through a growth spurt, and although she’s only nine years old, she looks thirteen. Kathryn, Icheb, and the girl’s mother follow at a more sedate pace. They’re all wearing brightly-coloured exercise clothing.

 

“Dr. Weir—” Naomi gasps again. “Mom said that I could ask you if you’d be willing to give me dance lessons.” She gazes at Elizabeth expectantly, thin body literally vibrating with excitement.

 

“I didn’t mean this exact minute, _Naomi_ ,” Samantha admonishes in exasperation as they catch up.

 

Kathryn chuckles as she meets Elizabeth’s bemused gaze; she’s been teaching Naomi and Icheb to play velocity.

 

Elizabeth is surprised to learn how much Kathryn participates in the crew’s lives ... especially the children’s lives. From teaching the young ones science and mathematics, to mentoring Icheb through the Starfleet Academy cadet program, Kathryn somehow finds the time—on top of her duties as captain, not to mention occasionally acting as engineer or science officer when needed—to just be with the children, even if it’s for an hour on the holodeck teaching them to play tennis or velocity.

 

Samantha is always looking for activities to expand her scientific-minded daughter’s education and interests—activities Naomi invariably ropes Icheb into participating in as well. Therefore, in addition to velocity and tennis with Kathryn, the two youngsters have music lessons with Ayala and Kim, chess and _kal’toh_ with Tuvok, and gardening with Noah Lessing.

 

The blonde woman shrugs smiling apologetically at her daughter’s excited intrusion.

 

“Ah ... I’d be delighted to teach you to dance, Naomi,” Elizabeth replies, chuckling softly as the girl squeals and capers about the corridor, pulling a reluctant Icheb into an impromptu jig.

 

Stopping suddenly, she flies over to Elizabeth and pulls her into a tight hug. “Oh thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she gushes happily.

 

“You’re welcome,” Elizabeth says softly, her voice husky with emotion at how little it takes to bring joy to this child. Turning to Sam, she continues, “I’m headed down to the shuttle bay right now, but why don’t we get together after dinner and go over our schedules—see where we can fit dance lessons in.”

 

“Thanks Elizabeth,” the other woman says gratefully. “I really appreciate this.”

 

“No problem,” Elizabeth replies, before turning to the young man. “Well Icheb, what about you? Would you like to learn to dance also?”

 

The boy stiffens, and Elizabeth can see a flash of horror ghost through his eyes at her gentle teasing.

 

_“No!”_ he yelps. “I mean that it’s quite all right, Dr. Weir,” he says stiltedly as he tries to regain his composure. “I mean that I don’t have any space left in my schedule for extracurricular activities. If you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for my lesson in ... in stellar cartography.”

 

“And you, young lady,” Sam says to her daughter as the boy hurries away, “need to get ready for your health science lesson with the Doctor.”

 

“Aw Mom!” Naomi complained in the manner of every child since the beginning of time, but her mother is having none of it as she takes the girl’s hand and drags her down the corridor. “Thanks again, Dr. Weir!” Naomi calls as they round a corner and disappear from view.

 

Kathryn’s soft chuckles catch Elizabeth’s attention. “Well I knew sooner or later she’d rope you into something,” she says, eyes twinkling. “I’m just surprised it took her this long.”

 

As Celes chokes on her laughter, Elizabeth eyes the captain, grousing good-naturedly, “And you couldn’t warn me?”

 

“Now where’s the fun in that?” she teases.

 

A spark kindles between them and, before she thinks about it, Elizabeth returns the flirty quip with one of her own.

 

“Oh, you’d be surprised at the things I consider _fun_ , Kathryn.”

 

The captain’s blue eyes widen in surprise and she blushes beet red. Shaking her head, she bobs a slight bow in Elizabeth’s direction.

 

“Touché, Dr. Weir, touché,” she says quietly, dabbing her face with her towel. “So you’re off to the shuttle bay?”

 

“Yes, Tom’s going to try to get into the shuttle again and he’s requested my presence,” she replies as they resume their walk to the turbolift. “Although, I don’t know what help I can be without the nanites. Want to come along?”

 

Kathryn glances down at her attire, shrugging as she joins Elizabeth and Tal in the lift. “Sure, I don’t have anything scheduled at the moment—it’s my day off.”

 

As the lift travels through the bowels of the ship, they chat amiably about Elizabeth’s new job as ambassador, Tal’s duties as her assistant, and how the office set-up was coming along.

 

By the time they reach the shuttle bay, Elizabeth realises that Kathryn has effortlessly managed to get a detailed progress report from her and has suggested ways to expedite some issues. She realises that it is this ability, to lead people in the direction they _need_ to go, is one reason that Kathryn was only thirty-four—according to Tom Paris—when she’d made the rank of captain, despite having started out as a science track officer instead of a command track officer.

 

The shuttle bay is bustling with people when they enter. Tom is in his element directing the assembled crew to their assigned tasks, while Harry is consulting with B’Elanna at the room’s central computer console.

 

Catching Elizabeth’s surprise at the number of people present, Kathryn laughs softly. “It’s time for our regular quarterly shuttle repair, maintenance and diagnostics,” she explains as most of the crewmembers—armed with PADDs and other instruments—disappear into the shuttles and larger _Delta Flyers_.

 

The cylindrical puddlejumper sits on the deck, looking very out of place among the small, sleek _Sunbird_ fighters parked off to the side. Elizabeth shivers at the sight of it; it had almost been her coffin, and there have been moments when she’d wished she had never been removed from it alive.

 

Kathryn’s gentle hand on her back steadies her … warms her. There is understanding in those gentle blue-grey eyes. Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth smiles gratefully at her friend, and tries to relax.

 

“Dr. Weir! Captain!” Tom calls excitedly, beckoning them over. “Sorry to drag you down here, Dr. Weir, but we’ve tried everything we could think of to get in—we were about to try a subspace resonance pulse to break through—”

 

“But there’s a chance that the pulse will wipe out the computer system,” Harry chimes in, “and we’d really like to avoid that if we can.”

 

“I see,” Elizabeth replies quietly. “But as I explained before, I was only able to access it because of the nanites.”

 

“Yes, but you recently mentioned that you had similar types of shuttles in Atlantis as well,” Tom says eagerly. “You’ve been calling them puddlejumpers, so we didn’t make the connection, but in your drawings they look _identical_ to this shuttle. You said that John Sheppard and your other pilots flew the puddlejumpers. How? I presume they didn’t have nanites—”

 

Comprehension dawns on Elizabeth and she smiles at him, unable to believe her own blindness. “I see—sorry it didn’t occur to me to mention it before, but John and the others could fly the Atlantis puddlejumpers because they had the Ancient Technology Activation gene.”

 

Elizabeth is suddenly uncomfortably aware of more than a dozen pairs of eyes—including Kathryn’s—staring at her in disbelief.

 

_“What?”_ B’Elanna growls; all work stops in the shuttle bay as everyone looks at the irate chief engineer.

 

Tom shuts his mouth with an audible snap before saying, “You need a special _gene_ to operate it?”

 

Nodding, Elizabeth replies, “Yes, the Ancients used a biological lock to keep their enemies from being able to access their technology, but ensuring that they or their descendants could. And even if you had a functioning gene, there is a mental component as well to operating most of their technology. John had a very strong version of the gene, therefore he was the best at accessing Ancient technology—I didn’t have the gene and Carson’s retroviral gene therapy never worked on me.”

 

Another few moments of stunned silence pass before Harry says in a tentative voice, “Maybe someone on the crew might have the gene?”

 

“What are the chances of that?” Tom says glumly, clearly disappointed.

 

“Probably quite slim,” Elizabeth replies gently. “Even on my Earth, the gene—especially in a form strong enough to activate Ancient technology—was fairly rare. Furthermore, this is an Asuran-built ship—that’s why I could access it via the nanites. I don’t know if they would have included the biological component of the lock.” She walked over to the ship and peered at the hull near the rear hatch. “There should be an access panel somewhere here … if we can open it, you might be able to interface your technology—” she mutters as questing fingers reach towards the small ship.

 

“Elizabeth—the force field!” She hears Kathryn’s urgent warning too late, but instead of being repelled by the energy barrier, her hand comes to rest on the cool metal of the hull.

 

She jumps back, startled by the quiet hiss as the hatch begins to lower. _“What the hell?”_

 

Tom gives a _whoop_ of delight as the lights come on in the small ship.

 

Elizabeth turns to Kathryn in shock; she feels her heart racing, but the blood is draining from her face. “What’s going on, Kathryn?” Her friend looks at her in confusion and all Elizabeth can feel is panic. “I don’t have the gene and the Doctor said that the nanites ... you promised me they were _gone_ , Kathryn!”

 

Taking Elizabeth trembling hands, Kathryn strokes them gently. “Calm down,” she says, blue eyes radiating concern as Elizabeth begins to hyperventilate. The shuttle bay is again silent and all eyes are on the two women.

 

“Let’s think about this logically,” Kathryn continues. “The nanites are gone—I’m sure of it, but we can have the Doctor scan you again if that will put your mind at ease.”

 

Elizabeth nods, but anxiety still twists in her gut. “But what if the biological nano-cells they repaired me with—what if those are _biological nanites_ with the same Replicator programming?” she asks fighting her rising hysteria and losing as tears gather and begin to roll down her face.

 

“Wait a minute, Dr. Weir,” Tom says excitedly before Kathryn can speak. “You took a retroviral therapy to try and obtain a functioning copy of the gene?”

 

“Yes,” she croaks, regarding him in confusion through her tears. “There was so much in Atlantis that I couldn’t access—but the therapy didn’t work.”

 

Laughing, Tom takes out his tricorder and scans her quickly, concentrating on her head and upper torso. “But the question is _why_ it didn’t work,” he says tapping some instructions into the instrument. “The problem with early gene therapies was that researchers often had very poor control over where the new gene inserted in the patient’s DNA. Using targeted sequencing helped, but it was still pretty much a crap-shoot a lot of the time. But simply because it didn’t work, doesn’t mean that it wasn’t still there.”

 

“I don’t understand,” she whispers hoarsely as she dries her eyes with trembling fingers, trying to bring herself under control again.

 

Instead of answering, he calls out, “Paris to sickbay—Doc, I’m sending you some scans of Dr. Weir. Can you identify the gene I’ve found flanked by what looks retroviral sequences?”

 

“Of course I can!” the Doctor says irritably. “I’ve already made note of it and meant to ask Dr. Weir—it looks like someone tried a crude form of gene therapy on her. Although why they would use it to insert a piece of junk DNA is beyond me.”

 

Paris’ eyes widen in shock. _“Junk DNA?”_

 

“Yes, extraneous genetic material accumulated from earlier stages in the evolutionary process—Mother Nature rarely throws anything out, you know,” the Doctor quipped. “With a tweak here and there, she simply re-tasks existing genes to perform a similar or new function or she just turns them off. However, no one has ever found a function for this particular sequence of DNA in Humans.”

 

“Well you have now!” Paris shouts excitedly. “Its name and its function are the same—the _Ancient Technology Activation gene_. Take a look at those scans again, Doc; it just activated in Dr. Weir and she just used it to release the biological lock on her shuttle craft.”

 

_“What!”_ the Doctor yelps in shock. “I’ll be right down.”

 

“Doctor,” Kathryn says, holding Elizabeth’s gaze with a speculative look. “What is the prevalence of this gene in the Human species?”

 

“It’s present in most Humans in one form or another, captain,” he replies to Elizabeth’s consternation. “It all depends on the particular allele or form of the gene a person carries. The particular allele that was inserted into Dr. Weir’s genome is prevalent in about one to three percent of the Human population.”

 

“Carson Beckett, my CMO on Atlantis, who came up with the gene therapy, used General Jack O’Neill’s gene for the template, since the General, like John Sheppard had the strongest form of the gene we’d ever encountered,” Elizabeth says considering his explanation carefully. “Carson’s own form of the gene was considerably weaker and it took a lot of effort and concentration on his part to work the Ancient technology in Atlantis. That’s why part of John’s duties was to go around the city with the scientific teams, carefully activating the technology for study. Some of the more ubiquitous things, like the transporters, only needed activation once and then anyone could use it regardless of whether they had the gene. Other things, like many of the weapons systems, needed someone with the gene to activate it each time it was used. “

 

“Fascinating!” the Doctor says excitedly. “I’d love to hear more about this, Dr. Weir. However, your original or native form of the gene—which by your account appears to be non-functional—is much more common, accounting for about fifteen percent of the Human population. And of course, there are homologues of the gene in most other Humanoid species—”

 

_“What?”_ Elizabeth looks at Kathryn in shock. “We never found anything like the ATA gene in any other species but Humans in our galaxy or Pegasus—and only those populations that were demonstrably descended from the Ancients or intermarried with them. But I still don’t understand how I can have the gene now—the therapy didn’t work.”

 

“The nanites, Elizabeth,” Kathryn answers gently. “Remember, they repaired _everything_. Dr. Beckett’s genetic therapy didn’t work because he couldn’t properly control _where_ the gene inserted into your DNA—if it inserted in the wrong place, it wouldn’t work. But if the nanites saw that it was in the wrong place, then they would logically do what they were programmed to do—they would fix the error.”

 

“The captain is quite correct, Dr. Weir,” the Doctor continues as he enters the shuttle bay. “In fact, in those cells in which the therapy had inserted the gene, the nanites deleted your native copy of the gene and inserted the functional therapeutic copy in its place. But for those cells that didn’t take up the therapy, they left them alone. However, in the nanocytes they created, they only used the functional copy, minus the retroviral bits, which probably means that you probably have quite a strong affinity for the Ancient technology now. So basically you’re a chimera—a sort of genetic mosaic—when it comes to this particular gene.”

 

_“Well, I couldn’t have explained it better myself!”_

 

Elizabeth whirls to face the open puddlejumper from which that achingly familiar voice issues.

 

_“John?”_ she croaks in disbelief, tears welling up in her eyes again; around her, phasers appear in the hands of _Voyager’s_ security officers.

 

“Hey Liz’beth,” John’s gentle drawl greets her as the puddlejumper’s heads-up display flashes into existence in the cockpit. John Sheppard’s transparent image floats in mid-air.

 

“John,” she whispers again, trembling in disbelief. _“How?”_

 

“Well, it’s not so much John Sheppard at your service, Liz’beth,” the image says with John’s trademark boyish grin, “as it is Puddlejumper Sheppard reporting for duty.”

 

_“Puddlejumper Sheppard!”_

 

He chuckles softly at her outrage. “Yes, well just call me Sheppard. I’m not so much _John Sheppard_ as I am your idea of him created by your mind while you were in stasis.”

 

“My _idea_ of him?” she says faintly in confusion.

 

“Elizabeth,” Kathryn says gently. “I think what Sheppard is saying is that he’s an AI—my guess would be that he is an interactive avatar the ship’s artificial intelligence created from your memories, dreams and subconscious desires to interact with your mind while you were in stasis.”

 

“But puddlejumpers don’t have artificial intelligences,” she protests.

 

“Oh yes we do,” he drawls with a broad grin. “What do you think interacted with your pilots’ minds, Liz’beth? I just happen to be a little more anthropomorphised than most—four hundred years of constant awareness and being linked to a Human mind will do that to ya.”

 

“But I was in stasis,” she protests again.

 

“But your _mind_ was still active,” Kathryn explains holding her gaze, forcing Elizabeth to concentrate on her. “We’ve seen it before—for some types of long-term stasis, it’s necessary to keep the person from succumbing to a type of isolation psychosis. An interactive virtual environment produced by the stasis computer, or in this case the AI, helps the mind remain active and sane.”

 

“Remember the _Aurora_ , Liz’beth?” Sheppard continues and she nods shakily as it all begins to sink in. “The Ancients on board that ship remained in stasis and hooked into their virtual world for over ten thousand years—”

 

“Ten thousand years?” Harry yelps.

 

Sheppard chuckles again. “Yeah, hyperdrive problems—and trying to make an interstellar journey at relativistic speeds gets you nowhere fast. Anyway, emergency stasis functions were built into all Ancient ships—for something as small as a puddlejumper, the entire ship becomes a stasis container.”

 

Kathryn regards the hologram shrewdly. “Sheppard, I’m Captain Kathryn Janeway; you’re on board my starship, _Voyager_. Can you tell us how you and Elizabeth got here? Elizabeth doesn’t have the knowledge to explain how you came to be here.”

 

“I take it we’re no longer in our universe?” he says soberly.

 

“That’s correct.”

 

“I figured that—what with smashing through the dimensional barrier in hyperspace and all,” the hologram replies, a sorrowful look on his face as he regards Elizabeth. “I wasn’t even supposed to be a hyperspace ship at all—the Replicators got the idea from your mind because you knew that Rodney was able to hook a hyperspace generator up to one of Atlantis’ puddlejumpers. Anyway, Captain Janeway, Elizabeth wasn’t exactly in a rational state of mind when she escaped from Oberoth—she found ways of thwarting him again and again, not only when she helped the real John Sheppard and the rest of her team escape, but every time he tried to probe her for information. Somehow, she managed to see through his illusions in very short order. It made him more brutal in his tortures as time went on.

 

“That last time, he made her watch everyone she loved die in a firestorm that engulfed the city, literally boiled the ocean away. But instead of breaking her mind and succumbing to his control of her nanites, she pulled a Matrix on him and somehow transcended him—she began to exert control on the Asuran core and therefore their entire environment both digital and physical.”

 

“She pulled a _Matrix_?” Paris asks in confusion.

 

“The Matrix was a movie exploring themes like the nature of reality and illusion, what it meant to be human versus machine,” Elizabeth replies, her gaze still fixed on Sheppard’s hologram. “What did you mean when you said that I transcended Oberoth? My escape—everything is just a nightmare jumble to me.”

 

Sheppard smiles another devilish grin, chuckling heartily. “I mean, my darlin’ Dr. Weir, you decided that within Asuras, all those silly rules—like gravity—underpinning the physical world, no longer applied to you.”

 

“What! What do you mean I _decided_ that the rules of the physical world no longer applied to me?”

 

“Well, you began to levitate, run up and down vertical walls … pass through solid objects—well solid Asuran Replicators anyway … explode the Asurans with your mind—I think you blew Oberoth up at least three times!”

 

His laughter is infectious and Elizabeth can hear _Voyager’s_ officers chuckling with him, but all she feels is a strange tension in her gut.

 

“Of course, each time the core computer would him again—but he definitely wasn’t a happy camper.”

 

“I don’t understand. How is any of that possible?”

 

Her voice trembles and he sobers up immediately as he holds her gaze.

 

“It was possible precisely because you were in _Asuras_ , Elizabeth,” he replies gently, “and Asuras was as much a digital place as it was a physical one, and all of it controlled by the city’s core computer, which was also the centre of the Asuran group mind. Now considering what Captain Janeway’s people have just told you about your Ancient Technology Activation gene—”

 

“You mean it was active even then?”

 

“Liz’beth, it’s probably been active since Rodney activated the nanites to repair your injuries. You just had to learn to control it. Now consider that everything on Asuras—including the _Replicators_ —is basically Ancient technology …”

 

_“Oh my God.”_

 

He smiles at her stricken face as she stares at him in mute comprehension. “Oh yeah—it was like the most powerful Ancient possible suddenly appeared in their midst.”

 

“Then why didn’t I just ... _take over_?”

 

“Because you didn’t know how or why you could do those things, and you didn’t care. All you could think about was getting away from them … from Oberoth. I told you; you weren’t exactly rational when we escaped.” She feels the warmth of Kathryn’s hand slip into her own as she steels herself against his quiet voice. “You were reliving that last nightmare over and over—watching John and Rodney burn … watching Teyla curling her body around Jinto trying to protect him from the flames.” Elizabeth turns into Kathryn’s embrace, her body shaking with the force of her tears as Sheppard continues quietly.

 

“We’d initially set course for Atlantis when we escaped, but after a particularly vivid episode, you just wanted to go home to your mother—to Earth. And in that split second, you ordered me to change course for Earth, and because our minds were so fully interconnected through the nanites, I obeyed instantly. By the time the alarms went off and the fail-safes tried to engage, it was too late; we’d already smashed into the hyperspace barrier, destabilizing the hyperspace window.”

 

“Why?” Tom Paris asks curiously.

 

“Because you’re not supposed to change course in hyperspace,” he replies gently. “It’s too dangerous, unless you really know what you’re doing. You’re supposed to drop out, recalculate your trajectory and then jump back in. All pilots are taught that.”

 

Tom’s voice is soft and compassionate. “But Dr. Weir wasn’t a pilot.”

 

“No she wasn’t,” Sheppard says with equal compassion in his voice. “The accident took us sort out of hyperspace and mired us in some weird plasma nexus phenomenon—moving us along what seemed to be the same trajectory we’d entered at, but it was like we were trying to move through molasses. I also determined that we had a small amount of hyperspace somehow wrapped around the ship like a cocoon, which seemed to buffer us against the energies in that place. However, with no reference for this phenomenon or any idea when it would end, and with Elizabeth’s mental and physical state deteriorating, after ten days, my protection subroutines came into play, and my primary purpose switched to preserving her life for as long as possible.”

 

“So you put her into stasis and hooked her mind up to a virtual world,” Kathryn finishes as she gently strokes Elizabeth’s hair.

 

“Yes. Anyway, at the end of it, we slammed through another hyperspace barrier, which nearly destroyed me, slagged my hyper-generator and compromised my environmental system. I had only five days of life support left, but I found that we were back in the Milky Way, and since Elizabeth knew that the Tau’ri still monitored the Ancient beacon frequencies, I activated an emergency beacon. But by the time my astrographic analysis determined that almost four hundred years had passed, and I realised that I wasn’t picking up any of the usual transmissions or hyperspace activity, the Fen’Domar had found us. With my life support just hours from crapping out, I calculated that although they weren’t Human, they were close enough physiologically, and advanced enough technologically that Elizabeth would have a greater chance of survival among them.”

 

His last quiet words echo in her mind and she’s distantly aware that her cries have grown louder, more hysterical and there’s not a damn thing she can do about it but hold onto Kathryn while she screams.

 

_… a greater chance of survival among them … a greater chance of survival among them … a greater chance …_

 

She doesn’t hear the hiss of the Doctor’s hypospray. She doesn’t hear when Kathryn calls for a site to site transport.

 

#

 

 


	6. Part 6

**Be My Homeward Dove**

 

Part 6

 

Kathryn sits in Elizabeth’s darkened living room watching the warp stars streak past the ship’s hull. She instinctively knows why Elizabeth had become so hysterical that the Doctor had had no choice but to sedate her. Sheppard’s actions had saved her physical body, but in doing so he’d nearly destroyed her spirit ... her soul.

 

There was no way the AI could have known what the consequences of his actions would be, but Kathryn can’t help the spurt of anger she feels for all that Elizabeth has suffered.

 

Suddenly she feels Elizabeth’s presence and turns her gaze to find the other woman standing in the threshold to her bedroom.

 

“Hey,” Elizabeth says hoarsely.

 

“Hey.”

 

She doesn’t move, but holds one hand out. Elizabeth darts over to the couch, and taking Kathryn’s hand, lowers herself to lie alongside smaller woman. Kathryn wraps her arms about Elizabeth and pulls her closer; Elizabeth tucks her head under Kathryn’s chin and sighs contentedly.

 

After a few moments of silence, Kathryn asks, “How are you feeling?”

 

“Safe now.”

 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

 

“No.”

 

That one small word hangs in the silence between them for a few moments—stark ... impenetrable.

 

“At least not right now,” Elizabeth whispers hoarsely. “It’s still too raw, but I promise we’ll talk soon.”

 

“I understand,” Kathryn replies stroking her hair gently.

 

After another short silence, Elizabeth sighs and says quietly, “I don’t understand how our _Earths_ can be so similar until the late 20 th Century and yet the entire reality ... the entire universe around those Earths are so different. And why would alien Humanoids in this universe have Ancient genes when so few _Humans_ in the Milky Way or Pegasus had it?” Meeting Kathryn’s gaze in confusion, she asks, “Am I making any sense?”

 

Kathryn chuckles softly. “Actually, you are,” she assures her. “And your confusion is not unique. The existence of omnicordial universes is one of the more recent and radical concepts in theoretical cosmological mathematics and physics to be proposed in the last half-century and one of the more difficult to grasp even if you do understand how it evolved. But that you’re here is proof enough that they do exist—how they come to exist is a matter of very heated debates among theoretical mathematicians in the Federation. At the base of the more popular theories is the concept of Conservation Through Trans-nodal Reality Null Result—I’m sure you’ve heard of the multiverse theory?”

 

“Everything that can happen, does happen and will happen,” Elizabeth replies.

 

“That’s it in a nutshell. Simplistic, but it will do. And since you can have universes where anything and everything can happen, this theory evolved to explain rare observations of universes that were quite _improbable_ , but not _impossible_ —universes in which one aspect, for example one planet, is virtually identical across universes, but everything else is vastly different.”

 

“Simply because something is improbable, doesn’t mean that it is not possible.”

 

“Exactly,” Kathryn replies. “Trans-nodal Reality Null Result postulates that unlike parallel universes—which are due to forks in the timeline veering off the original trajectory with each decision—each plane of reality stems from a central nodal reality existing on a space-time trajectory called an _omnicord_. In this system, not every little decision results in a new universe, although a decision may result in a new plane of reality still centred on that same omnicord, but with each object on that plane vibrating at a slightly different frequency from the original node. Most decisions lead to a “null result” because they don’t affect anything on a cosmic scale—only when the cumulative changes become great enough does that universe “branch off”, so to speak.”

 

“All right,” Elizabeth says smiling. “I’m not sure I get all of what you’re trying to say, but I think I’m starting to get some of it. It’s like a spider web, with the node being the centre and the spokes are different dimensions radiating off and leading to other nodes that radiate their own spokes.”

 

Kathryn looks at her, impressed with her quick grasp of the subject. “Bravo!” she says enthusiastically. “Only instead of two-dimensional spider webs, imagine three-dimensional spider webs connecting to other three-d webs—four-dimensional if you consider the dimension of time also. Now, let’s consider an extreme example in the world you called Abydos—the desert world that was closest to your Earth in the Stargate network. From your descriptions of the planet, the system in which it was located and its distance of approximately sixteen light years from Earth, I think that in this universe it may be the third planet in the 40 Eridani A system. Now according to what your Colonel Carter told you about it, about twenty million years ago, a large asteroid hit it, causing almost all life to go extinct and bringing a lot of the _naquadah_ closer to the surface where it was easily mined by the people Ra transplanted there. The biosphere recovered eventually, but with fewer life forms.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“But in _this_ universe, twenty million years ago, that asteroid didn’t hit the planet, but according to the evidence the Vulcans have compiled, it hit one of the moons, reducing it to rubble and causing such a great gravitational anomaly that the other two moons were thrown off their trajectories. One was subsequently captured by a neighbouring gas giant, while the other was nearly ejected from the system altogether and has settled into a highly eccentric orbit around the sun with a period of about 200 years, rather like a comet—leaving 40 Eridani III in this universe with no moon and an asteroid belt that causes some spectacular meteor showers from time to time. The planet is still dry and arid for the most part, but it’s also teeming with life ... and among that life, sentient life.” Elizabeth looks at her expectantly as she continues. “Today, we know that species as Vulcan.”

 

“Abydos is Vulcan?” she asks, stunned by the revelation.

 

“Yes, I believe it is—and so does Tuvok from the information you’ve provided.”

 

“Wow! But how does that illustrate the node universe theory versus the branching parallel universe theory?”

 

“As I said, this is an extreme case—and yes, it illustrates both to an extent, but it also shows that it is robust enough to encompass those older theories. But let’s look at our Earths—as far as we can tell, until the mid to late Twentieth Century ... somewhere about the late1960s ... our histories are nearly identical down to the moon landing in 1969. There were probably some ripples before that—your Earth found the Stargate in 1929, ours didn’t—and I don’t know the defining incident that caused the split, although I have some suspicions. But from everything you’ve told us, your space program stalled in the 1970s, while ours continued unabated with more moon landings and lots of deep space probes—one of which eventually came back to haunt us in the Twenty-third Century. You also spoke of computer operating systems from major companies like Microsoft and Apple, while the major company on our Earth at the time was Chronowerks, which was started by a man named Henry Starling.

 

“Meanwhile, on your Earth in the 1990s, you began a clandestine space program through the Stargate—on our Earth at the same time, we had the first rumblings of the Eugenics Wars, the beginnings of a global economic collapse and the start of primitive space ships financed by very wealthy madmen to take them and their followers to the stars. But until that major split happened, there was basically one nodal Earth where your universe and my universe were concerned. Once the split happened, your Earth and its parallels were basically resonating at the same frequency—if you will—as the universe that had Abydos in it, while my Earth and its parallels were resonating at the same frequency as the universe that had Vulcan in it. Each now resides on a different omnicord from the original omnicord that spawned them.”

 

 _“My God,”_ Elizabeth breathes. “How does that even happen? I hear you, and even understand some of what you’re saying, but really, it’s just incomprehensible to me.”

 

Kathryn can’t help but laugh. “Like I said, the _how_ is still a matter of debate among the theoretical mathematicians and scientists who populate the field. As my mother says, perhaps they’re all simply attempting to calculate the existence of _God_.”

 

Elizabeth looks at her in puzzlement. “Your mother?”

 

Kathryn grins. “She’s one of those theoretical mathematicians attempting to calculate God.”

 

“Wow.” She looks at Kathryn with open admiration. “Now I know where you get your brains from.”

 

Kathryn can feel herself blushing. “Oh no, my mother is far smarter than I am,” she says softly.

 

“And your father—what does he do?”

 

Even after so many years, Kathryn still feels a tight constriction in her chest when she thinks of her father. Meeting Elizabeth’s gaze again, she answers, “My father died over twenty years ago, but he was an admiral as well as a scientist. His field was warp propulsion and starship design.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

The remorse in Elizabeth’s quiet voice cuts across Kathryn’s heart.

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says, placing a reassuring kiss on the other woman’s forehead. “You couldn’t have known and it was a long time ago.”

 

“But it still hurts—his death still hurts.”

 

“Yes. But I can live with it now.”

 

A comfortable silence settles between them. Kathryn listens to Elizabeth’s quiet breathing, feels her heartbeat pulse against her chest, suddenly seeming to match her own rhythm.

 

“As for why other Humanoid species may have this gene,” Kathryn continues with a rueful smile. “I’ve been doing a bit of research; something about the story of your Ancients—the Anquietas—tweaked my memory of a similar story. A dying race of Ancient Humanoids happened upon a galaxy where no others similar to their kind existed—”

 

Elizabeth feels her breath catch in her throat as she listens to Kathryn’s story.

 

“Therefore, they seeded countless planets throughout the galaxy with their DNA, allowing each species that developed to flourish or die according to their world’s evolution. And they are the reason there are so many Humanoid species in our Milky Way Galaxy today.”

 

_“Oh my God.”_

 

“In fact, like the ATA gene, they also left a DNA coded message for their descendants to find. However, they broke up the message into small pieces and spread them across the planets they’d seeded. Their hope was that the species that evolved on those worlds in a given area, once they were sophisticated enough, would come together in the spirit of kinship and cooperation to solve the puzzle and hear the message.”

 

“And did you? Is that how the Federation got started?” Elizabeth asks excitedly.

 

Kathryn smiles as she replies, “No, the Federation was started over two hundred years ago. We only came upon this message in 2369, just over a decade ago. A prominent archaeologist, Dr. Richard Galen, who was a mentor to Captain Picard, was one of the first to advance the theory that there was some sort of message encoded in the DNA not only of Humanoids, but into the life matrix of a lot of M-Class planets, even those that hadn’t developed sentient life. When he was killed by another species to prevent him from acquiring another piece of the puzzle, Captain Picard and his crew took up his quest and deciphered the message.”

 

“Did it promote cooperation and kinship between the different species?” Elizabeth chuckles as she studies Kathryn’s face. “I take it from your expression that was a big _no_?”

 

“You can say that—it seems these Ancients of ours were extremely naive, or extremely optimistic to say the least. One of the groups hunting for the pieces, destroyed the entire ecosystem—indeed the entire _surface_ —of one planet in order to keep the other groups from acquiring that piece of the message. They thought it was an advanced weapon they could use against their enemies.

 

“Picard did manage to get a grudging alliance going for a short while—until they found enough pieces to hear the message. It was a simple message of peace—very disappointing for many of the species concerned as most of them were looking for an advanced weapon. As far as I know, as soon as the message was heard, the alliance disbanded and everyone went their separate ways. However, a young archaeologist from the Sorbonne continued Dr. Galen’s work and discovered a couple more pieces that led to us deciphering another layer to the message. We didn’t get more information beyond the message of peace, but we did acquire a bit more on the physical make-up of that ancient species. He also found that Dr. Galen had misdated the fragments to approximately 4.5 billion years ago, when in actual fact, they were spread across the galaxy about fifty to one hundred million years ago.”

 

Elizabeth gaped at her in awe.

 

“Would you like to see her?”

 

“Yes! Yes, of course,” she replies enthusiastically.

 

Rising gracefully, Elizabeth helps Kathryn up from the couch and follows her over to the computer console on the desk. Quickly calling up the file, Kathryn turns the monitor’s screen to show the other woman.

 

“That is what she looked like in the initial recording.”

 

“A generic humanoid,” Elizabeth said studying the ancient woman carefully. “The Ancients of my universe looked indistinguishable from Humans.

 

Kathryn nodded. “We think that they chose this initial form to communicate because they wanted all the humanoid species involved to come together in kinship, foster peace among us—”

 

“So they wouldn’t want to favour any one species over another,” Elizabeth concluded.

 

“Exactly.”

 

Tapping another command into the console, Kathryn brings up a second picture and puts it alongside the first. Elizabeth gapes in shock.

 

“That’s what she looked like after the additional information was added.”

 

Elizabeth gives a hysterical little giggle as she stares at the image. “Well, hello Oma,” she whispers.

 

“Oma?” Kathryn asks with curious anticipation.

 

“Oma Desala,” she replies, crouching to study the image more closely. “One of the first Ancients we had contact with—certainly the first we knew by name. Of course, she was an ascended being by then.”

 

“Right, she was the one who helped Dr. Jackson to ascend when he was dying of radiation poisoning.”

 

“Yes, we found a picture of her in the Atlantis database. She was apparently one of their most famous philosophers, even before they left their home galaxy.”

 

“And as in your universe, apparently they chose Earth to not only seed with their genetic material, but also to direct our evolution towards their form.”

 

Elizabeth nods as she continues to gaze at Oma Desala’s picture for a few more minutes.

 

Studying the look on the other woman’s face, Kathryn quickly comes to a decision. “Computer, are any of the holodecks free?” she asks.

 

“Holodeck two is available until 2300 hours,” was the computer’s dispassionate response.

 

“Please reserve holodeck two for my use until 2300 hours,” she orders, eyes twinkling playfully at Elizabeth’s confused expression as the computer confirmed her request. “Come on,” she says grinning now, “I have something I think you should see, and the best way to do so is on the holodeck.”

 

#

 

It’s still a marvel for Elizabeth to enter an inactive holodeck with its glowing gridlines and watch as an entire world is built around her when a program is activated. It’s not as though she hasn’t experienced similar wonders of technology, but it’s that these people—these humans for the most part—who’ve developed it without the seemingly magical technology of the Ancients. And it’s the same whenever she thinks about their transporters, replicators and warp drives.

 

“Computer, activate program Janeway Iconia Prime—Beta 5,” Kathryn orders and they’re at once transported to a room with high ceilings, tall open doors and crystal, clear windows that frame a soaring alien cityscape, with shimmering towers that disappear into the clouds and immediately remind Elizabeth of Atlantis.

 

She grips Kathryn’s arm tightly. “Where are we? What is this place?” She whispers softly, afraid to break the silence as she gazes around the deserted city.

 

“The world is called Iconia,” Kathryn replies smiling brightly at her. “It’s in the Beta Quadrant, and this is an academic recreation of its last city from tricorder readings and all the archaeological evidence we could find. In actuality, only the spire housing this complex remained.”

 

“It reminds me so much of Atlantis,” she says hoarsely, walking quickly to one of the outer doors that lead to a balcony overlooking the city, set in a landscape of rolling hills. The view of the city’s towers all around is as breathtaking as was in Atlantis, although once she was past the initial shock, she can see it is very different in both style and execution. However, the layout is quite similar and she realises she’s standing in the central tower, which in contrast to Atlantis, is actually much shorter than the buildings that surround it.

 

“From your pictures and what you’ve described, I thought it might resemble Atlantis,” Kathryn says softly. “I believe that it might have been a colony of your ancient Anquietas or at least they were influenced by them. All evidence we’ve collected so far shows that the Iconian civilisation flourished on this planet for thousands of years until they were destroyed about 200,000 years ago in a massive bombardment of the planet, and they had some very impressive technology. They also had a number of colonies—”

 

She heads back inside and Elizabeth follows reluctantly, gazing at the city over her shoulder. “We found writing similar to the Iconian writing systems on at least three other worlds in the Alpha Quadrant—worlds we believe they’d escaped to during the war—and one in the Gamma Quadrant,” she says stopping in front of a golden plaque beside the only closed door.

 

Elizabeth’s breath hitches in her throat as she stares at the plaque in shock. “I take it you can read what it says,” Kathryn says with a low chuckle.

 

“My God, it’s Ancient!” she gasps involuntarily, but even at first glance she can see startling differences indicating that this language had evolved quite a bit. “Or something very close—I think it literally says that this is _“the place of leave-taking before journey”_ ... an embarkation room.”

 

“I thought it might be something like that,” Kathryn says lightly, eyes sparkling as she takes Elizabeth’s hand again, gently pulling her towards the door. It slides open automatically. “Something about the Ancient writing in your book seemed a bit familiar, but I couldn’t remember what it was.”

 

Elizabeth comes to a dead stop as her mind registers the contents of the room. Like an insubstantial window, a large, rectangular picture floats in mid-air on a raised platform. Suddenly, the content of the picture shifts and an entirely new vista is opened to her.

 

“What is it?” she breathes in awe.

 

“The Iconian version of a Stargate, I believe,” Kathryn replies. “But one evolved to no longer require physical support. The window was a gateway that could take a traveller many different places. Once activated, it automatically acquired thousands of different destinations on myriad worlds, and would even show nearby places like the bridge of a starship in orbit. However, we believe that specific destinations could be programmed into the gateway from the central computer, but we never got the chance to decipher the system before it was destroyed.”

 

Elizabeth’s heart breaks. “It was destroyed?”

 

“Yes,” Kathryn says soberly. “Iconia was discovered in the Neutral Zone that separates Romulan territory from Federation space. The control complex was all that was left on a ruined planet that still had pockets of hard radiation after 200,000 years. It sent out a probe that transmitted what was thought to be a virus that had destroyed the first ship that found the planet and it infected another two ships, the Enterprise and a Romulan Warbird. Later, it was found to be an alien program that was designed to overwrite our computers. While the crews raced to shore up failing systems and eradicate the program, an away team, including Captain Picard and Lieutenant Data, was trying to decipher the Iconian system, which led to the discovery of the gateway. However, in order to keep it from falling into Romulan hands, Captain Picard destroyed the complex.”

 

“Are you sure it was entirely destroyed?” Elizabeth asks, unable to believe that a possible connection to the Ancients in this reality could be gone forever.

 

“Quite sure; I’m sorry.”

 

Elizabeth nods; she understands although her heart mourns for the lost Iconians.

 

“That’s Earth!” she yelps as the portal shifts again to two curved iconic towers set in a plaza with a large fountain in the foreground.

 

Kathryn chuckles. “Yes, it’s Toronto, Canada—part of the historic Old City Heritage Buildings, I believe. They’re still standing, in case you’re interested.” After a moment she continues with a small teasing smile. “However, there is one other place I’d like to show you, if you don’t mind leaving Iconia for a while?”

 

“I think I can pull myself away,” she replies smiling.

 

“All right, but I must tell you, this next site was discovered during a war a few years ago, and it was also deliberately destroyed by my people to keep an enemy from using it to invade our worlds,” she says soberly. Again, Elizabeth is shocked and saddened by a loss she feels keenly for some reason—and not to mention a bit angry—but she remembers the times when she was willing to destroy Atlantis to keep the Wraith from potentially using it to invade Earth.

 

As she nods her consent, Kathryn calls out, “Computer, replace program with Janeway Iconia 5, Alpha 2.”

 

The light, airy embarkation room fades, replaced by a dim room with heavy, stone walls and an almost subterranean feel. She is facing a large doorway, which leads to a dimly-lit passageway that falls into darkness quickly.

 

Kathryn takes her gently by the arm and turns her to face the opposite direction.

 

“This was the second Iconian portal complex we’ve found,” she explains quietly as Elizabeth stares at the doorway set in the far wall. “It was on the planet Vandros IV in the Gamma Quadrant, on the other side of the Bajoran Wormhole.”

 

“Where the shape-shifting Founders and the Dominion are located?”

 

“Yes,” Kathryn replies. “But this is what finally jogged my memory regarding the Iconians, their portals and their writing.

 

Elizabeth moves forward without conscious thought to examine the portal more closely. As you can see, they’ve also done away with the spinning ring—”

 

“But the design of the chevrons on each side of the portal is very familiar.”

 

“We believe that this faction or colony wasn’t as advanced as their brethren in the Alpha Quadrant—the portal still needed to be framed by a structure, not like the freestanding ones on Iconia—but the writings found elsewhere in the ziggurat showed that they were undeniably Iconian. If you’d like to study the language in more detail, I’ve gathered all the files we have on it and copied them to a folder for you for easy access. I’ve also included the variants from Dewan, Dinasian and Iccobar, as well as the written languages of the Zibalians in the Alpha Quadrant, and the Lokirrim, a species we met a few years ago in the Delta Quadrant, as they appear quite similar also, although their spoken languages are quite different. I can show you how to access it when we get back to your quarters. You can also access these holodeck programs whenever you wish.”

 

Sudden warmth suffuses Elizabeth to the marrow of her bones. Only a few hours ago, she’d felt like she’d been thrust into the darkest pit from which she would never emerge, but with one thoughtful gesture, this wonderful woman had dispelled the worst of Elizabeth’s nightmares.

 

“Thank you,” she says softly, turning to Kathryn and folding the startled woman into her arms. “Thank you so much. I know there’s so much we need to discuss—so much I need to tell you—but think you for being so patient with me and for always seeming to know what I need most, when I need it the most.”

 

Kathryn’s eyes are gentle and shine with love as she cups Elizabeth’s cheek. “It’s nothing more than you deserve,” she replies hoarsely. “But you’re welcome, Elizabeth ... you are _always_ welcome.”

 

#

 

Seven studies the data from the binary pulsar; she had missed their arrival at this location because of a slight backache for which the Doctor had insisted on giving her a full examination. Being pregnant was certainly an inconvenience, but she endured it for the sake of her marriage to Chakotay. Offspring were extremely important to him, and from her research, she knew that she was supposed to be feeling emotionally connected to the small life growing within her, but throughout the pregnancy, she hadn’t felt any of this mystical connection to the child.

 

The beeping console draws her attention again; thus far all the data indicated they were performing in most ways as they should for pulsars of their class.  Except for the high degree of synchronicity in their pulse rate of neutrinos, anti-neutrinos, chronoton particles, and anti-chronoton particles, it had seemed normal enough.  Seven looked down at her console in surprise and checked the sub-atomic particle cycling between the two partners again, but there were no mistakes.  Since their arrival, she had been intrigued by the sensor ghost echo of thanali particle wave build-up and verteron particles—hallmarks of a nearby wormhole, but could find no evidence of such a phenomenon.  However, if her supposition was correct, then she had solved their mystery.

 

“Seven of Nine to Captain Janeway.”

 

“Janeway here. How can I help you, Seven?”

 

“Captain, I believe I have found the source of the free verteron particles and the thanali particle wave,” she replied, dampening the excitement from her voice. “I think that the wormhole exists between the pulsars themselves.”

 

“Between them?” Janeway asks; her tone of voice is incredulous.

 

“Yes, captain,” Seven continues.  “If you check the synchronicity of sub-atomic particle cycling, you’ll find that coincident with the sensor readings of a wormhole, there are also tachyon surges between the two—that is what is masking the presence of the wormhole.”

 

“Report to the briefing room Seven,” Janeway says—excitement evident in her voice now.

 

“Aye captain,” Seven replies; she finishes downloading her data to the console in the briefing room and her notes to a PADD.  Her mind is preoccupied with the implications of her data as she hurries through the corridors of _Voyager_ , and she wonders if the captain would concur with her assessment. As she walks, she runs the data through her head again. Hurrying into the turbolift, she finds it is already occupied. Torres smiles at her—they are most often the last to arrive for briefings as Torres had to come from engineering and she from astrometrics.

 

“I hear you have some pretty exciting news,” Torres says conversationally.  “A wormhole between the two pulsars?”

 

“Yes commander,” she replies.  “That is what the data indicates.”

 

Torres chuckles softly.  “It’s all right to be excited Seven,” she says with a grin.  “It’s an amazing discovery.” 

 

Seven gives a brief smile and nods to her in acknowledgement as the lift doors open. Torres immediately gravitates to Paris’ side and enters the briefing room with him.  As Seven takes her seat and waits for the Captain’s arrival, she meets Elizabeth Weir’s dark eyes, and her hand involuntarily tightens its grip on the PADD in her lap.  She hadn’t expected the diplomat to be there.

 

 _But I should have_ , she chastised herself firmly. As ship’s ambassador, she is entitled to attend the senior staff briefings.  Seven doesn’t know why, but she doesn’t like the other woman; she doesn’t like the way Weir monopolises Janeway’s time—although she and the captain hadn’t spent much time together in the months before Elizabeth’s arrival.

 

Weir’s expression is calm, but her eyes are hard bits of flint; it appears that Dr. Weir doesn’t like her much either. Seven looks away as the captain enters with Chakotay and Tuvok.

 

Janeway smiles at Seven as she sits down and activates her monitor.  “All right, Seven,” she says quietly. “Let’s take it from the top.”

 

“Yes Captain,” Seven replies rising and moving to the wall monitor.  “This binary pulsar is not only unusual in the synchronicity of the neutrino and chronoton particle pulsing of its members, but also because they are cycling the opposite sub-atomic particle between them at the same time.  When Pulsar A sends a pulse of neutrinos to Pulsar B, Pulsar B sends the same pulse strength of anti-neutrinos to A.  However, this is also complicated by the fact that approximately two picoseconds later, Pulsar B is also sending a pulse of neutrinos to A and receiving a pulse of equal strength of anti-neutrinos from A.  Therefore, most times we only observed the net result—a pulse of neutrinos from A to B and one from B to.  Each coupled pulse of neutrino and anti-neutrinos are of equal strength, but the strength of the couple B sends in comparison to A, is slightly weaker.

 

“Simultaneous with the neutrino/anti-neutrino pulsing, there is also chronoton/anti-chronoton particle pulsing, but in the opposite direction.  When Pulsar A sends a pulse of neutrinos and receives a pulse of anti-neutrinos, it also sends a pulse of anti-chronotons and receives a pulse of chronotons at the same time, while the same occurs for Pulsar B two picoseconds later.  I believe this has resulted in the mouth of a small, highly localised wormhole being opened between the two.  However, this event is often masked by simultaneous surges of tachyons from one pulsar or the other and therefore resulting in intermittent wormhole readings of free verteron particles.”

 

“Excellent work Seven,” Janeway praises her quietly as she looks up from studying the data on her terminal.

 

“I wonder where the wormhole goes,” Kim says studying his own PADD.

 

“I doubt we could ever get a probe in there to find out, Harry,” Torres answers with a smile. “If I remember correctly, the last thing the captain sent between two pulsars was _Voyager_ herself and we almost didn’t make it.”

 

“And if I remember correctly—a case could be made for the captain not exactly thinking rationally when she did that,” Janeway quips with a broad grin; Elizabeth Weir’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly as she studies the captain with a curious expression.  “But I don’t think we need to do anything as drastic as that to solve this little mystery—doesn’t that tachyon surging coupled with neutrinos and chronotons suggest anything to you?”

 

They all stare at her perplexed as she rises and goes to the wall display.  “I do not understand what you are getting at, captain,” Seven says, puzzled as Janeway proceeds to manipulate the image on the screen.

 

The captain grins at them as she explains, “The question isn’t _where_ the wormhole opens, but _when_ it opens, because unless I miss my guess, the wormhole opens right there between the two pulsars.” 

 

They all gaped, utterly flabbergasted. 

 

“You aren’t seeing the same wormhole opening every two picoseconds, but the same one every four picoseconds—so that the mouth opens, then two picoseconds later, the tail opens in almost the same place.   But as you can see, it’s rotated by 0.45 degrees, that’s why the sub-atomic pulses from B to A appear to be slightly weaker and the tachyon surge from B is also slightly stronger than A.  I think ladies and gentlemen, what we have out there is a natural time machine—”

 

 _“What?”_ Torres explodes incredulously.

 

“Look at the data, B’Elanna,” Janeway replies impishly.  “In fact, I’ll take it further; I’m willing to bet that Pulsar B—as we’ve designated it—doesn’t even exist in this point in the space-time continuum.  From the strength of its tachyon surging, I’d say it exists in the future, perhaps in an alternate reality, and somehow, they’re being held together in space-time and connected by the wormhole.  However, whether the wormhole is responsible for the bond between the two, causing a rift in space-time that holds them together, or whether the wormhole is a result of the two coming together across space-time, I couldn’t say, but it’s certainly a magnificent phenomenon,” she finishes with twinkling eyes.

 

“Then there must be some point in the space-time continuum when the mouth and tail of the wormhole open simultaneously—when both exist at the same time—” Seven says, looking at Janeway in admiration for the first time in a long time. The fact that the pulsars were phase-locked in space-time had never occurred to her.

 

“Which would result in its annihilation and the annihilation of both pulsars—” Torres interjects excitedly, “leaving only the past partner—our pulsar A in this reality and the future partner, pulsar B in the alternate reality.”

 

“My question is that will there come a time when that annihilation event happens in our reality—as we move closer to the point in the space-time continuum?” Kim asked with a frown.

 

“The temporal mechanics of the phenomenon would predict it, Lieutenant Kim,” Seven replies, running through the many permutations in her head.  “In fact, if this phenomenon currently exists as the captain theorises, then the annihilation event has already occurred and will occur in that time-frame.  However, once past that event, this binary pulsar will still remain in this position, except that from that future time-frame, the instant after the annihilation event, Pulsar B will appear to be in the present, while Pulsar A will appear to be in the past.  The time of this event can be calculated from careful analysis of the movement of the mouth and tail of wormhole into synchrony as well as the loss in strength of the tachyon surging from Pulsar B and the corresponding gain in strength of the tachyon surging from Pulsar A.  After the annihilation event, the mouth and tail of the wormhole should start moving apart again.  Theoretically, we should be able to travel into the future using the wormhole, to the point in time where the mouth and the tail are 0.45 degrees out of phase in the opposite direction.  However, if we returned a few moments later, we would return to a point in time before we ventured into the wormhole.”

 

“Now I remember why I hate time travel,” Janeway says laughing, and Seven notices that Chakotay smiles softly at her.

 

“The past is the future, the future the past—and it all gives you a headache,” Chakotay says chuckling as she looks at him in surprise, and then shakes her head wryly.

 

“Exactly,” she quips.  “I’ve always loathed the fact that I could accidentally kill my great-grandmother before she had my grandfather—then where would I be?”

 

The captain flashes a grin at Weir as the senior staff all laugh at her joke; the other woman’s expression softens with an undeniable expression of affection. Suddenly, for the first time, she gives credence to those rumours going around the ship that Captain Janeway and Dr. Weir have begun an intimate relationship. She’s overheard Jenny Delaney and Ghorima discussing a Declaration of Intention that Weir has apparently sent to the captain and Janeway is said to have accepted.

 

The prospect of a relationship between Weir and the captain bothers her for some reason she cannot quite fathom.

 

“As such, I suggest we move on as quickly as possible,” the captain continues. “When will we finish gathering the relevant data for predicting the annihilation event Seven?”

 

“With the astrometric sensors at maximum, we should finish the data acquisition by 23:00 hours, captain,” she replies consulting her PADD.

 

“All right then,” the captain brings the meeting to a close.  “We’ll plan to get underway by the beginning of gamma shift at 24:00 hours, commander,” she says looking at Chakotay.

 

“Aye captain,” he replies stiffly now, making a note on his PADD. Seven realises that he is displeased for some reason.

 

“Dismissed.”

 

As they all rise and file out of the briefing room, Seven hears Janeway say, “Dr. Weir, may I have a few moments of your time?”

 

“Of course, captain,” the woman murmurs slipping into the seat closest to the head of the table.

 

As the briefing room door closes, Seven sees the captain hand the diplomat a PADD; Kathryn Janeway smiles as if Elizabeth Weir is the only being in existence.

 

#

 

Kathryn paces her living room nervously; the butterflies in her stomach are having a grand old time.

 

“What are you doing?” she whispers to herself, wiping her moist palms on her forest green skirt. It’s a long, flowing wrap around, paired with a simple white silk blouse and comfortable black pumps that have just a bit of a heel.

 

Elizabeth’s prompt invitation to dinner and the Cabaret had caught her at a moment of sheer giddiness after she’d sent her response to Tuvok. She hadn’t even thought about it when she’d accepted.

 

But she is thinking about it now. And although she and Elizabeth have been seeing a lot of each other privately … although they’ve eaten together a number of times … although she knows that her crew is aware of the nature of their relationship … she is still nervous about their first _‘public’_ date.

 

_“God, what were you thinking?”_

 

A low chime from her computer tells her that it is 1855 and it’s now or never if she doesn’t want to be late for dinner in Elizabeth’s quarters.

 

Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders and marches out of her quarters, making her way down the corridor to a door only a few metres from her own. As her hand hovers over the door’s chime, she realises that she’s forgotten the bottle of wine she’d replicated. But before she can turn to go back, the door opens and Elizabeth is standing there smiling at her.

 

She’s a vision in black, which contrasts beautifully with her alabaster skin, and her thick, dark chocolate hair is swept up into an elegant chignon, showing off her graceful neck. The v-necked bodice of the dress is fitted to her slim waist, while the skirt flares wide and full down to mid-calf. It’s held closed by four large buttons down the front to her waist, and where the skirt parts slightly, Kathryn can see the black crinoline and lace of the underskirt. Her legs are encased in sheer black stockings and though her dancing shoes have heels that are about the same height as Kathryn’s, they have the effect of making her seem even taller. The only hints of colour are the bright red lipstick and the ruby pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat.

 

“I forgot the wine,” Kathryn blurts out much to her chagrin. She can feel the hot flood of embarrassment wash over her face. Closing her eyes for a moment, she says, “I’ll just go back and get it.”

 

“Leave it,” Elizabeth says with a quiet chuckle as Kathryn opens her eyes again to meet her twinkling gaze. “If I drink anything now, I’m liable to get drunk and then B’Elanna will have my head. Come inside, Kathryn,” she says turning and walking back to the replicator, not waiting to see if Kathryn follows.

 

Forcing her nervousness down, Kathryn steps inside, allowing the door to close. As Elizabeth orders a couple glasses of sparkling water from the replicator, Kathryn notices that there’s a seam running up the back of each leg of her stockings and wonders why when the replicator can produce perfectly seamless stockings. The brunette has neat, trim ankles and long, lean calves that disappear enticingly beneath her full skirt all too soon.

 

 _I never thought I’d understand why men in the olden days found a glimpse of a woman’s ankle so enticing that they wrote poetry about it_ , she thinks in amusement.

 

“Kathryn!”

 

The sudden volume of Elizabeth’s voice startles her out of her introspection and she realises that the other woman has been trying to get her attention.

 

“Are you ready to eat?” Elizabeth asks dark eyes unreadable.

 

“Yes,” Kathryn replies hoarsely. Her little imp laughs at her; _way to go with the articulate speech, Kath_. “Sorry about the wool-gathering,” she says as walks over to the chair that Elizabeth has pulled out for her.

 

As she goes to sit down, Elizabeth’s arms snake about her waist from behind; Kathryn instinctively leans back into the taller woman, feeling the knot of tension in her belly uncoil, and she exhales.

 

“Tonight, and every night, Kathryn, we’ll only go as far as you’re comfortable going,” she says softly.

 

Turning in her embrace, Kathryn smiles and cups Elizabeth’s cheek as she whispers back, “Tonight, and every night, Elizabeth, we’ll only go as far as you’re comfortable going.” Going up on her tip-toes, she winds her arms about the taller woman’s neck and pulls her into a gentle, searching kiss.

 

They are both breathing heavily as they reluctantly break the kiss. “Thank God for kiss-proof lipstick,” Elizabeth chuckles, breaking the ice as she uses her thumb to wipe a small smear from the corner of Kathryn’s mouth. “But I don’t think they quite accounted for both participants wearing lipstick—I think we’ve thoroughly merged our colours.”

 

Kathryn joins her laughter and rests her hands against Elizabeth’s chest. Finally, getting her laughter under control, she takes a deep breath and says, “Thank you—I needed that.”

 

Elizabeth nods and steps out of their embrace. “Come on, let’s eat,” she says as they sit down. “B’Elanna expects our team to be there by eight-fifteen sharp and she’ll be one _angry_ Klingon if I’m late.”

 

#

 

Later, as Tom Paris leads Kathryn to her seat near the stage, she tries to remember what they had for dinner, but to her chagrin, she realises that she hasn’t the faintest clue. As she waits for the opening act to take the stage, she feels a frisson of excitement—that’s been missing from the last few iterations of the Cabaret—ripple through the room.

 

A few minutes later, Tom places a bright pink cocktail on table in front of her. “It’s called _Hot Lady Legs_ ,” he tells her, impish grin splitting his features. “Don’t ask what’s in it—apparently it’s Elizabeth’s own concoction and she won’t let us in on the secret until after the Cabaret.”

 

Kathryn takes a tentative sip of the cocktail; it’s delightfully fruity at first, filled with tropical notes of guava and pineapple—then she catches a kick of _something_ going down and gasps in surprise.

 

“It definitely lives up to its name,” she says hoarsely. “The Lady can certainly ... _kick_.”

 

Paris laughs as the lights go down and a sudden _hush_ of anticipation blankets the room.

 

The music starts with an orchestral flourish of keyboards, drums and violins, but far more up-tempo than Kathryn is used to hearing those instruments.  A strong soprano voice rings out from the darkened stage.

 

_Get this party started on a Saturday night_

_Everybody’s waiting for me to arrive_

 

Light illuminates the raised stage, casting the figures holding various poses into silhouette.

 

_I got lots of style, check my gold diamond rings_

_I can go for miles, if you know what I mean ..._

 

From the back of the stage another figure begins to appear, rising up as if being lifted from a lower level.

 

_I’m coming up, so you better get this party started_

 

She lifts her arms into the air striking a pose as the lights come to full illumination. Elizabeth stands triumphant for a beat, before stepping elegantly off the lift.

 

 _I’m coming up, I’m coming_ , the chorus members sing as they begin to move, forming a gauntlet down which Elizabeth parades as she sings. Like Elizabeth, many wear long, modest-looking dresses in various colours and styles, while others, like B’Elanna, look dangerous in long leather overcoats.

 

_I’m coming up, so you better get this party started_

_I’m coming up, I’m coming_

 

As the other women dance around her, Elizabeth stalks the stage and Kathryn can’t take her eyes off her. Elizabeth’s sultry gaze doesn’t leave Kathryn either as she continues her routine.

 

_Sending out the message to all of my friends_

_We’ll be looking flashy in my Mercedes-Benz_

_I got lots of style, check my gold diamond rings_

_I can go for miles, if you know what I mean!_

 

The appreciative hoots and hollers of the audience fade into the background. There’s nothing overtly sexual about Elizabeth’s dress or her movements, but altogether as a package, Kathryn finds it unbearably sexy.

 

_I’m coming up, so you better get this party started_

_I’m coming up, I’m coming_

_I’m coming up, so you better get this party started_

_I’m coming up, I’m coming_

 

_Pumping up the volume, breaking down to the beat_

_Cruising through the west side we’ll be checking the scene_

_Boulevard is freaking as I’m coming up fast_

_I’ll be burning rubber; you’ll be kissing my ass!_

 

She giggles adorably as continues to sing and stalk around the dancing women.

 

_Pull up to the bumper, get out of the car_

_Licence plate says, ‘Stunner, number one Superstar!_

 

The _‘licence plate’_ —whatever that was—is correct; she is a stunner!

 

_I’m coming up, so you better get this party started_

_I’m coming up, I’m coming_

_I’m coming up, so you better get this party started_

_Get this party started_

_Get this party started_

_Get this party started_

_Get this party started!_

 

_Making my connection as I enter the room_

 

Again, it seems as if Elizabeth is singing only to Kathryn; Kathryn smiles wryly and thinks that perhaps she is.

 

_Everybody’s chillin’ as I set up the groove_

_Pumping up the volume with this brand new beat_

_Everybody’s dancing and they’re dancing for me_

_I’m your operator, you can call every time_

_I’ll be your connection to the party line!_

 

_I’m coming up, so you better get this party started_

_I’m coming up, I’m coming_

_I’m coming up, so you better get this party started_

 

In quick movements to a frenzied whirl of violins, guitars and other instruments, one by one, the women twirl and whip off their dresses and overcoats to reveal far more sexy costumes beneath.

 

_Get this party started_

_Get this party started_

_Get this party started_

_Get this party started_

 

Finally, Elizabeth removes her own dress with a flourish, smiling gorgeously as she strikes a pose, one hand on twitching hips, the other holding the garment out as she finishes the song.

 

_This party started ... right now! Ooh!_

 

For a moment, Kathryn simply sits there mesmerised, drinking in the sight of her triumphant love in a black, shimmering fringed costume, which amplifies every subtle, sensual movement, no matter how minute.  A tantalizing flash of white thigh shows between the tops of her stockings and the hem of her skirt.

 

A beat later, Kathryn realises everyone is on their feet applauding wildly and belatedly rises, adding her own applause. Elizabeth winks saucily at her before turning and sprinting off-stage with everyone except B’Elanna.

 

“Crap,” she hears Tom moan good-naturedly to Harry as a very loud guitar chord begins the next song. “We’re so going to lose!”

 

Kathryn resumes her seat, taking a deep gulp of her cocktail as the spotlight focuses on B’Elanna’s figure encased in a tight red leather bustier, black leather pants, and high-heeled, shiny, thigh-high black boots.

 

As B’Elanna begins a very sexy dance, a disembodied voice begins to sing.

 

_I was looking for a driver who’s qualified_

_So if you think that you’re the one, step into my ride_

_I’m a fine-tuned supersonic speed machine_

_With a sunroof top and a gangsta lean_

 

_So if you feel me let me know, know, know_

_Come on now what you waiting for, for, for?_

_My engine’s ready to explode, explode, explode_

_So start me up and watch me go, go, go_

 

Kathryn explodes with laughter as Tom stares at his wife in absolute shock, jaw stuck firmly on the floor. Kim and the rest of his friends join her in laughing at him as his wife gyrates and shimmies across the stage in those impossible heels.

 

_Get you where you want to go, if you know what I mean_

_Got a ride that’s smoother than a limousine_

_Can you handle the curves? Can you run all the light?_

_If you can, baby boy, then we can go all night_

 

As Torres continues to dance and Paris continues to drool, Kathryn catches sight of Elizabeth in the wings, making last-minute adjustments to Sam Wildman’s sexy cowgirl costume. She speaks a few words of obvious encouragement to the nervous-looking woman and gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. Taking a white mask from the prop table, Elizabeth places it over Sam’s face and ties it behind her head.

 

Two other women wearing identical masks and similar costumes come to stand on either side of Wildman; from their colouring and identical curvaceous builds, Kathryn thinks that they’re the Delaney twins. As Elizabeth finishes adjusting Sam’s mask, one of the twins hands the blonde a short, thick stick-like object.

 

B’Elanna’s song ends with the singer—and her sexy movements to the grinding beat—extolling her husband to _‘Shut up and drive ... drive ... drive!’_

 

As B’Elanna takes her bow to thunderous applause, Paris steps forward and gives her a courtly bow, acknowledging his defeat, as if to say, _“Touché and well played.”_

 

Torres grins, before taking another bow and swiftly moving off-stage. The lights go down again as the next pounding beat begins and voices start chanting _‘Mum mum mum mah’_ over and over as the three masked women strut to the front of the stage and began to dance.

 

Sam is obviously the lead dancer with a slightly different routine, while Meghan and Jenny dance identical routines on either side, just slightly to the back. Toy guns in holsters strapped to their hips, track their sexy movements and every so often, they’d slap the sticks against their palms. Suddenly, in perfect unison, all three women flick their _‘sticks’_ , transforming them into large fans, in which each panel is a playing card.

 

_I wanna hold ‘em like they do in Texas plays_

_Fold ‘em, let ‘em hit me, raise it baby, stay with me! I love it!_

_Luck and intuition, play the cards with Spades to start_

_And after he’s been hooked, I’ll play the one that’s on his heart_

 

Flicking the fans open and shut, the women tease and flirt as they dance.

 

_Oh, oh, oh_

_I’ll get him hot, show him what I’ve got_

_Oh, oh, oh_

_I’ll get him hot, show him what I’ve got_

 

_Can’t read my, can’t read my_

_No, he can’t read my poker face_

 

The fans flare again, covering the masked faces before fluttering down as they continue to dance.

 

_She’s got to love nobody_

 

_Can’t read my, can’t read my_

_No, he can’t read my poker face_

_She’s got to love nobody_

 

_P-p-p-poker face, p-p-p-poker face_

_Mum mum mum mah_

_P-p-p-poker face, p-p-p-poker face_

_Mum mum mum mah_

 

_I wanna roll with him, a hard pair we will be_

_A little gambling is fun when you’re with me, I love it_

_Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun_

_And baby when it’s love if it’s not rough it isn’t fun, fun …_

 

#

 

Over an hour has passed since the show began, and Kathryn has seen Elizabeth dance three more songs as part of the larger ensemble of all the dancers. In the first, Susan Nicholetti is the lead dancer, inviting everyone to _‘Dance the night away / Live your life and stay young on the floor’_ ; the second is a high-energy, blatantly sexy _‘Proud Mary’_ sung by Telora Olawende with surprise vocals by Noah Lessing, while in the third ensemble piece, the women proudly strut their stuff as B’Elanna sings _‘I’m a girl, I’m a woman, I’m a lady, I’m a Queen / I’m everything I can be!’_

 

Elizabeth is also one of three dancers with Samantha Wildman and Ghorima, while Moira Jarvis sings a flirty number called _‘Man! I feel like a woman!’_

 

As Olawende leaves the stage after a solo performance to _‘Slave to the Rhythm’_ , Kathryn is surprised when B’Elanna and Moira sit down at her table, both carrying very large cocktails and grinning mischievously. It is then that she notices the other dancers scattered around the Cabaret, but Elizabeth is not in evidence.

 

As her mind registers the guitar, drums and piano mingling their lovely mellow beats, she returns her attention to the stage just in time to see the single figure silhouetted there. Elizabeth begins to sing in a low, sensuous soprano.

 

_The word is about – there’s something evolving_

_Whatever may come – the world keeps revolving_

_They say the next big thing is here_

_That the revolution’s near_

_But to me it seems quite clear_

_That it’s all just a little bit of history repeating_

 

Hips swaying to the music, her movements are fluid and precise, yet showing of the suppleness of a dancer’s body that is both natural and at the same time, well trained.

 

_The newspapers shout – a new style is growing_

_But it don’t know if it’s coming or going_

_There is fashion – there is fad_

_Some is good – some is bad_

_And the joke is rather sad_

_That it’s all just a little bit of history repeating_

 

_And I’ve seen it before_

_And I’ll see it again_

_Yes I’ve seen it before_

_Just little bits of history repeating_

 

Her long dancer’s legs are exquisite as they carry her effortlessly through the intricate choreography. Every shake and shimmy is elegantly amplified by the fringed dress.

 

_Some people don’t dance if they don’t know who’s singing_

_Why ask your head? It’s your hips that are swinging_

_Life’s for us to enjoy_

_Woman, man – girl and boy_

_Feel the pain – feel the joy_

_And sidestep the little bits of history repeating_

 

Kathryn gets the feeling that Elizabeth is dancing just for her, and there is utter joy … utter freedom in her movements.

 

“She choreographed all the dances tonight,” Moira Jarvis says quietly in her ear. Startled, Kathryn takes her attention away from the stage to meet the redhead’s gentle gaze. “A suggestion, captain? Allow her to choreograph your dance tonight.”

 

Flabbergasted, Kathryn can only nod dumbly. Jarvis smiles and squeezes her arm gently, before rising and melting into the audience.

 

_Just little bits of history repeating_

 

_And I’ve seen it before_

_And I’ll see it again_

_Yes I’ve seen it before_

_Just little bits of history repeating_

 

Again, Elizabeth finishes her routine holding a triumphant pose; hands held out, head held high as the audience goes wild with their applause. Kathryn feels her desire explode like a supernova under Elizabeth’s heated gaze, and she knows then that she wants this woman more than she’s ever wanted anything before.

 

#

 

“Will you stay tonight?” Kathryn’s words come in gasps between kisses. Elizabeth has her pinned against the wall just inside the door of her quarters.  Kathryn straddles one of her legs as Elizabeth works her blouse off her shoulders and strips her to her waist.

 

Deftly removing Kathryn’s bra, Elizabeth cups her breasts and toys with the nipples, rolling them until stiff.  “I don’t think I could make it anywhere in this condition,” she says lowering her head to take one of Kathryn’s breasts into her mouth.  Kathryn trails one hand down between Elizabeth’s legs to stroke her through the thin fabric of her black panties, and moans passionately as her lover nips playfully at her nipples.  Suddenly, she pushes away from the wall and slips from Elizabeth’s grasp. 

 

“Kathryn!” Elizabeth cries in frustration.

 

Kathryn laughs and darts towards her bedroom calling, “Catch me if you can!”

 

She hears Elizabeth racing after her, and cries out as she is tackled onto the bed. Elizabeth grasps her by the waistband of her skirt, somehow untying the knot, and Kathryn wriggles out of it as she tries to crawl away.  She sits up against the headboard panting heavily as Elizabeth kneels on the edge of the bed, and then goes down on all fours to stalk her like an exotic black cat.  Kathryn whimpers at the back of her throat as Elizabeth locks gaze with her and pushes open her legs at the knees before lowering her head into her lap.  Kathryn can feel Elizabeth’s hot breath on her moist and aroused flesh and she shuddered with the intensity of the feeling.

 

With a flurry of movement, she grabs Elizabeth’s fringed costume and frantically tugs at it, pushing her onto her back before straddling her and removing the garment, tossing it to the floor.  She brings her breasts down to brush against Elizabeth’s and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, then a moan of pure pleasure.  Kathryn smoothes her lover’s unruly hair back from her face and kisses her gently. 

 

“I love you, Elizabeth,” Kathryn whispers.

 

“I love you too, Kathryn, I love you,” Elizabeth replies pulling Kathryn’s body to hers and holding her tightly.  Kathryn kisses her deeply again, and then lays her head on Elizabeth’s shoulder.

 

After a moment the younger woman laughs, “You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?”

 

Kathryn raises her head and looks naughtily into Elizabeth’s eyes. “Sleep is the last thing on my mind, dearest,” she says in a low, sexy voice.

 

“Good,” Elizabeth replies in a voice thick with desire, “because I have _no_ intention of allowing you to sleep tonight.”

 

“Elizabeth?” Kathryn’s voice is soft, questioning as she looks deep her love’s eyes—needing to be sure there is no misunderstanding. There is definitely no misunderstanding as Elizabeth pulls her down and kisses her passionately. 

 

“I want this, Kathryn,” she husks breaking their kiss and drawing a ragged breath. “Please Kathryn, I need this. Make love to me.”

 

Seeing the tears gathering in Elizabeth’s green eyes, Kathryn hadn’t thought it possible for her to feel more deeply for the beautiful brunette, but as their mouths explore one another again, she quickly realises just how wrong she’s been about that. Feeling Elizabeth’s hand at the waistband of her panties, she straightens up, removing the questing limb quickly and directs Elizabeth to fondle her own breast. 

 

“Oh, no you don’t, Elizabeth,” she laughs softly.  “You do way too much damage to my self control. Tonight is your night, my darling—tell me what you want ... what you need.” 

 

Elizabeth’s eyes are wide and vulnerable, sparkling with tears. “You,” she whispers, “with me ... in me ... I want to feel again, Kathryn. I want to feel loved again.”

 

Kathryn gently kisses her. “You are loved, Elizabeth,” she assures her, “You are loved.”

 

Kathryn guides her fingers into Elizabeth’s silky mass of curls at the apex of her legs to explore the soft, plump lips there and kisses coral-tipped breast as she tries to arch into further contact with Kathryn’s hand. 

 

“Patience,” she admonishes playfully, removing her fingers from Elizabeth’s moist heat to trace concentric circles around her navel. “We have all the time in the world, my love,” she whispers, kissing down her body. She tastes of salt and sweat and jasmine.

 

Elizabeth mewls, soft, nonsensical, needy sounds as she writhes under Kathryn’s ministrations.

 

Holding Elizabeth’s hooded gaze, Kathryn slips one finger into her wet, narrow passage. Elizabeth’s eyes widen as Kathryn’s thumb brushes lightly across her tender, little bud.

 

“Yes!” she cries hoarsely, throwing her arms around Kathryn’s neck and arching her hips to make closer contact with the hand that manipulates her so skilfully.

 

“Oh Kathryn ... more!” she demands raggedly, throwing her head back as Kathryn slips a second finger into her. Tears slip from beneath her eyelids as she clutches at the sheets.

 

Kathryn gazes at her in wonder as her cries took on a higher pitch.  Elizabeth moves one leg to circle Kathryn’s waist, trapping her hand between them, and then clamping her mouth over Kathryn’s, she rides her fingers hard towards her volcanic release.

 

#

 

Elizabeth comes back to herself as Kathryn whispers her name through the haze of her orgasm-dulled senses, smiling as she brings her lover’s face into focus. She can see the concern in Kathryn’s eyes as she caressed her damp cheek with one hand, while cradling her tenderly. 

 

“I’m fine, Kathryn,” she answers, capturing that small, delicate hand and kissing her fingertips. “It’s just that—” She hesitates for a moment, feeling the warm, embarrassed glow spread beneath her skin. “It’s been such a _long_ time,” she finishes, nervously meeting her eyes.  She’s never exactly been the quietest of lovers, but she also doesn’t remember being so frantic or loud—she’s never been so demanding with her needs before. And she’s surprised now to realise that she’s comfortable enough with Kathryn to ask.

 

Kathryn smiles her understanding as she gently strokes Elizabeth breasts and lowers her head to capture her lips in a gentle kiss.  “I’ve never met anyone like you, Elizabeth, so honest, so full of life and love.  Thank you,” she whispers.

 

Elizabeth lays there for a moment just basking in her love and her praise, before deftly rolling on top of Kathryn and straddling her waist. 

 

“You’re welcome, Kathryn,” she answers in her most seductive voice.  “But I hope you will allow me to extend a proper welcome,” she says reaching in to stroke her aroused flesh without breaking eye contact.

 

Kathryn gives a sharp intake of breath and then an incoherent groan as Elizabeth teases her clit. She reaches up to grasp Elizabeth’s breasts with both hands.

 

Elizabeth moves her hand away and lowers her head to her.  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she says hoarsely and crushes her mouth to Kathryn’s. 

 

She feels the urgent roll of Kathryn’s hips, desperate to bring her arousal into contact with much needed friction. Elizabeth breaks the kiss, and then rearranging her position, she finds that demanding little bundle of nerves again, and with one finger gives it a slow, teasing caress, extracting another wrenching groan from Kathryn.

 

Leaning in, she begins a torturous journey with her tongue, starting with a slow laving of her nipples, licking and nibbling them erect before moving down Kathryn’s body, dragging her breasts across her skin.  Kathryn gasps as Elizabeth licks the dense auburn curls and runs another gentle finger along her clit, before sucking it into her mouth.  Kathryn’s fingers tangle in her hair and Elizabeth can hear her ragged breathing as she uses her tongue to stimulate that sensitive bud and enters her swiftly with two fingers.

 

Quickly finding that pebbled inner flesh, Elizabeth hears her cry raggedly, “Oh God! I can’t hold on.”

 

Elizabeth moves her mouth away, but continues to stroke Kathryn as she watches her lover’s frenzied movements.  Kathryn is clutching wildly at the sheets as she bucks against Elizabeth’s hand.

 

“Then let go,” Elizabeth purrs and her love groans loudly.  “We have plenty of time,” she reminds Kathryn with a soft chuckle and lowers her head again to tease protruding little pearl. As she kisses and tongues her way to its apex, she hears Kathryn cry out her name, body arching and stiffening into a bow, and lifting her head to watch as the Captain of _Voyager’s_ control breaks, Elizabeth gives a joyful laugh.

 

#

 

Elizabeth cries out loudly as Kathryn entered her again.  She’d expected Kathryn to take a while to regain her senses after her first explosive orgasm, but to her delight, her lover quickly catches her by the waist, and in a move that belies her smaller stature, flips Elizabeth beneath her, much to her surprise. 

 

After that initial bit of wrestling, Kathryn had stopped for a moment, holding Elizabeth’s gaze ... asking permission ... and then with Elizabeth’s grateful nod, she slowly pushed in deeply with two fingers. 

 

Elizabeth gasps as the pleasure and the pressure mounts, and began to move in tandem with Kathryn’s slow thrusts.  “More,” she pleads, and Kathryn adds a third finger, while using her other hand to stimulate Elizabeth’s clit.

 

Closing her eyes tightly against the exquisite torture, she whispers Kathryn’s name over and over, an erotic litany that heightens her pleasure every time Kathryn touches the depths of her soul.  She meets her love’s gaze again through a veil of tears as their rhythm speeds up and breaths, “I love you.” 

 

Kathryn’s expressive blue eyes widen and she pulls Elizabeth to her, before both are swept away and drowned in a deluge of pure emotion. 

 

#

 

Elizabeth cries in earnest now as she clings to Kathryn like a life preserver. She feels Kathryn’s apprehension and fear, as her lover cradles her to her breast, gently stroking her hair and back. She knows that Kathryn can’t possibly understand the reason for her hysteria, and she wants to explain, but all she can do is cry.

 

“What’s wrong, Elizabeth?” Kathryn asks again, voice laden with her own tears. “Did I do something wrong? _Oh God ..._   Have I hurt you in some way?”

 

“Nothing,” she manages to husk at last, wiping her face on the edge of the cover sheet before lifting her head from Kathryn’s chest and scooting up so they are lying face to face, her body half covering Kathryn’s. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Don’t even think that, love,” she says, smoothing strands of Kathryn’s damp hair away from her face.

 

She wants to cry again as she sees fear in those storm-blue eyes.

 

Taking another deep breath, she forces herself to say what she needs to say ... to say what Kathryn needs to hear.

 

“I love you, and I love that we made _love_ tonight. For the first time in so long, I feel whole ... I feel _clean_ again, Kathryn. Can you understand that?”

 

“Of course ...”

 

“Then understand that I don’t regret anything that happened tonight, I don’t regret this relationship with you and I don’t want to give any of this up. But Moira was right—I should have talked to you first ... there is so much I need to tell you, Kathryn. I’m sorry, I’ve been so unfair to you,” she whispers as she begins to cry again.

 

As Kathryn opens her mouth to speak, Elizabeth quickly places one finger on her lips. “I thought that we’d just naturally fall into talking about things, but I realise now that it’s not fair to you.”

 

“In what way were you being unfair?” Kathryn asks in confusion. “What happened just now? Did I do something to frighten you?”

 

Elizabeth rolls off Kathryn to lie on her back. She presses the backs of her hands against her eyelids and forces herself not to start crying again.

 

“It’s nothing to do with our lovemaking, Kathryn; you’re the most considerate lover I’ve ever had.” She removes her hands from her face, but doesn’t meet Kathryn’s gaze. “You … you were going to turn off the light,” she whispers ashamedly.

 

There is a sudden silence, and then, “Oh Elizabeth …” Kathryn gathers her up into her arms and holds her close; she’s near tears again.

 

“I’m a grown woman terrified to go to sleep in the dark—how completely _pathetic_ is that?”

 

“It’s not pathetic at all,” Kathryn says firmly, pulling back and cupping her tearstained face. “It’s simply human, Elizabeth; that’s all … simply human.” As they recline against the headboard, Kathryn asks, “Does the Doctor know?”

 

“Yes,” Elizabeth replies staring at their joined hands. “He and Moira have prescribed a sleep aid, but it’s in my quarters.”

 

“But sleeping with the lights on isn’t good for you—what about a sleep mask?”

 

Another wave of panic sweeps over Elizabeth before she swallows it down. “No, they don’t work for me,” she says hoarsely. “They make me feel like I’m suffocating. Usually, I set the computer to automatically turn the lights out once it detects that I’ve been asleep for half-an-hour.”

 

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Kathryn says gently as she strokes her hair with her free hand. “Should I call the Doctor and ask him to send the sleep aid to my replicator?”

 

Elizabeth meets her gaze shyly now. “No, I don’t think I’ll have any problem getting to sleep tonight.”

 

“Computer, track Dr. Weir’s lifesigns and turn lights off once she’s been asleep for half an hour.”

 

“Acknowledged.”

 

Kathryn smiles and pulls Elizabeth to snuggle down beside her. They both lie on their sides, face to face.

 

“Don’t ever be afraid to tell me things,” Kathryn says quietly, feathering her fingers through Elizabeth’s hair. “And there’s a lot that I need to tell you about as well—not the least of which is my good friend, _Depression_. Just ask B’Elanna—anyone—about what happened to me when we were stuck crossing the last Void. Not the _Captain’s_ finest hour.”

 

Elizabeth nods, heartened by Kathryn’s words and drawing courage from them.

 

“Will you come to my next appointment with Moira?” she whispers. “It’s in three days—2:30 pm.”

 

“Of course,” Kathryn replies without hesitation.

 

“What about your schedule?”

 

Kathryn chuckles. “Monthly briefing with Tuvok—believe me, it won’t be a problem to reschedule.”

 

“I’m sorry about earlier—I know this was not how you’d planned to ring in Christmas … holding the hand of a complete neurotic.”

 

Kathryn lays a gentle kiss on her lips. “This is _exactly_ how I wanted to ring in Christmas … safe in the arms of the woman I love.”

 

Elizabeth smiles and snuggles in closer, wrapping her arms around Kathryn’s slighter form.

 

“I love you too, Kathryn. Merry Christmas.”

 

“So it is,” Kathryn says in surprise as she glances over her shoulder at the chronometer; it’s seven minutes past midnight. “Merry Christmas, my love,” she replies.

 

 

The End

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credits (quoted or mentioned)
> 
> 1999 - Prince   
> Let’s Go Crazy - Prince   
> When Doves Cry - Prince
> 
> I am a Rock – Simon and Garfunkel  
> Feelin’ Groovy – Simon and Garfunkel  
> Mrs. Robinson – Simon and Garfunkel  
> Sound of Silence – Simon and Garfunkel  
> Scarborough Fair – Simon and Garfunkel  
> America – Simon and Garfunkel  
> The Boxer – Simon and Garfunkel  
> Bridge over Troubled Water – Simon and Garfunkel  
> Homeward Bound – Simon and Garfunkel
> 
> Get the party started – Pink  
> Shut Up And Drive – Rihanna  
> Poker Face – Lady Gaga  
> On The Floor – Jennifer Lopez  
> Proud Mary – Creedence Clearwater Revival (Ike & Tina Turner version)  
> Queen – Jully Black  
> Man! I Feel Like A Woman! – Shania Twain  
> Slave To The Rhythm – Grace Jones  
> History Repeating – Propellerheads featuring Dame Shirley Bassey
> 
> Title: Be My Homeward Dove from Dance Me To The End Of Love – Leonard Cohen


End file.
